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THE 


I 


< £./ 


Scarlet Pimpernel 


BARONESS ORCZY 

• %* 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 
Zbc *fcttfcftec£>ocfcer {press 



Hbc *fcnicfeert>ccfcer pre*s, flew KWfe 


tfo 

JULIA NEILSON and FRED TERR? 

WHOSE GENIUS CREATED THE r6LES 07 
•IE PERCY AND LADY BLAKBNXY 
ON THE STAGE, 

THIS BOOK 

It AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE*. 





CONTENTS 


sx*r. 

L 

Paris: September 1792 


• 

• 

IMI 

X 

II. 

Dover: “The Fisherman's Rest” 

• 

• 

XX 

III. 

The Refugees . 

. 

t 

• 

*3 

IV. 

The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel 

• 

3a 

V. 

Marguerite 

• 

• 

• 

43 

VI. 

An Exquisite of '92 

• 

• 

• 

49 

VII. 

The Secret Orchard 


• 

• 

<X 

VIII. 

The Accredited Agent 

• 


• 

69 

IX. 

The Outrage . 

• 


• 

82 

X. 

In the Opera Box 

• 

• 

• 

90 

XI. 

Lord Grenville’s Ball 

• 

• 

• 

108 

XII. 

The Scrap of Paper . 

• 

• 

• 

Xl6 

XIII. 

Either— Or? . 

• 

• 

• 

126 

XIV. 

One O’Clocx Precisely! 

• 

• 

• 

X29 

XV. 

Doubt . • • 

• 

• 

• 

x 39 

XVI. 

Richmond • . 

• 

t 

• 

146 

XVII. 

Far swell • 

• 

• 

t 

163 

XVIII. 

The Mysterious Device 

• ' 

% 

• 

m 


vl CONTENTS 


CHJUP. 

XIX. 

The Scarlet Pimpernel 

• 

• 

• 

*Atm 

178 

XX. 

The Friend • . 

• 

• 

1 

189 

XXL 

Suspense . , 

• 

• 

• 

197 

XXII. 

Calais • , 

• 

• 

• 

*07 

XXIII. 

Hope 

• 

• 

• 

EI 9 

XXIV. 

The Death-trap 

• 

• 

• 

228 

XXV. 

The Eagle and the Fox 

• 

• 

• 

236 

XXVI. 

The Jew 

• 

t 

* 

146 

XXVII. 

On the Track . 

• 

% 

• 

258 

XXVIII. 

The P&rr Blanchard’s Hut 

m 

• 

267 

XXIX. 

Trapped 

• 


• 

278 

XXX. 

The Schooner 

• 

• 

• 

284 

XXXI. 

The Escape 


• 

• 

299 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 























































































































The Scarlet Pimpernel 


CHAPTER I 

PARIS: SEPTEMBER 1 792 

A surging, seething, murmuring crowd, of beings that 
are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they 
seem naught but savage creatures, animated by vile 
passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate. 
The hour, some little time before sunset, and the place, 
the West Barricade, at the very spot where, a decade 
later, a proud tyrant raised an undying monument to the 
nation’s glory and his own vanity. 

During the greater part of the day the guillotine had 
been kept busy at its ghastly work : all that France had 
boasted of in the past centuries, of ancient names, and 
blue blood, had paid toll to her desire for liberty and for 
fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this late 
hour of the day because there were other more interesting 
sights for the people to witness, a little while before the 
final closing of the barricades for the night. 

And so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la 
Greve and made for the various barricades in order to 
watch this interesting and amusing sight 

It was to be seen every day, for those aristoi were 


2 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


such fools ! They were traitors to the people of course, 
all of them, men, women, and children, who happened 
to be descendants of the great men who since the 
Crusades had made the glory of France : her old 
nobUsse. Their ancestors had oppressed the people, 
had crushed them under the scarlet heels of their dainty 
buckled shoes, and now the people had become the 
rulers of France and crushed their former masters-— not 
beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in 
these days — but beneath a more effectual weight, the 
knife of the guillotine. 

And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture 
claimed its many victims — old men, young women, 
tiny children, even until the day when it would finally 
demand the head of a Ring and of a beautiful 
young Queen. 

But this was as it should be : were not the people 
now the rulers of France? Every aristocrat was a 
traitor, as his ancestors had been before him : for two 
hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled, 
and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extrava- 
gance; now the descendants of those who had helped 
to make those courts brilliant had to hide for their 
lives — to fly, if they wished to avoid the tardy venge- 
ance of the people. 

And they did try to hide, and tried to fly : that was just 
the fun of the whole thing. Every afternoon before the 
gates closed and the market carts went out in proces- 
sion by the various barricades, some fool of an aristo 
endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of 
Public Safety. In various disguises, under various 
pretexts, they tried to slip through the barriers which 
were so well guarded by citisen soldiers of the Republic 
Men in women’s clothes, women in male attire, children 


PARIS: SEPTEMBER 1792 3 

disguised in beggars’ rags : there were some of all sorts : 
ci-devant counts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to 
fly from France, reach England or some other equally 
accursed country, and there try to rouse foreign feeling 
against the glorious Revolution, or to raise an army in 
order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the Temple, 
who had once called themselves sovereigns of France. 

But they were nearly always caught at the barricades. 
Sergeant Bibot especially at the West Gate had a 
wonderful nose for scenting an aristo in the most 
perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began. 
Bibot would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the 
mouse, play with him, sometimes for quite a quarter of 
an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by the disguise, by 
the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hid 
the identity of a ci-devant noble marquise or count. 

Oh 1 Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was 
well worth hanging round that West Barricade, in order 
to see him catch an aristo in the very act of trying to 
flee from the vengeance of the people. 

Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by 
the gates, allowing him to think for the space of two 
minutes at least chat he really had escaped out of Paris, 
and might even manage to reach the coast of England in 
safety : but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk 
about ten metres towards the open country, then he 
would send two men after him and bring him back, 
stripped of his disguise. 

Oh ! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the 
fugitive would prove to be a woman, some proud 
marchioness, who looked terribly comical when she 
found herself in Bibot’s clutches after all, and knew that 
a summary trial would await her the next day and after 
that, the fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine. 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


* 

No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September 
the crowd round Bibot’s gate was eager and excited. 
The lust of blood grows with its satisfaction, there is no 
satiety : the crowd had seen a hundred noble heads fall 
beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure 
that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow. 

Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask 
close by the gate of the barricade ; a small detachment 
of citoyen soldiers was under his command. The work 
had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were 
becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of 
Paris : men, women and children, whose ancestors, even 
in remote ages, had served those traitorous Bourbons, 
were all traitors themselves and right food for the 
guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction of 
unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them 
back to be tried by the Committee of Public Safety, 
presided over by that good patriot, Citoyen Foucquier- 
Tinville. 

Robespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot 
for his zeal, and Bibot was proud of the fact that he on 
his own initiative had sent at least fifty aristos to the 
guillotine. 

But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various 
barricaded had had special orders. Recently a very great 
number of aristos had succeeded in escaping out of 
France and in reaching England safely. There were 
curious rumours about these escapes ; they had become 
very frequent and singularly daring ; the people’s minds 
were becoming strangely excited about it all. Sergeant 
Grospierre had been sent to the guillotine for allowing a 
whole family of aristos to slip out of the North Gate 
under his very nose. 

It was asserted that these escapes were organised by 


5 


PARIS i SEPTEMBER 1793 

a band of Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be 
unparalleled, and who, from sheer desire to meddle in 
what did not concern them, spent their spare time in 
snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame 
la Guillotine. These rumours soon grew in extrava- 
gance ; there was no doubt that this hand of meddlesome 
Englishmen did exist ; moreover, they seemed to be under 
the leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity 
were almost fabulous. Strange stories were afloat of 
how he and those aristos whom he rescued became 
suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and 
escaped out of the gates by sheer supernatural agency. 

No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen ; as 
for their leader, he was never spoken of, save with a super- 
stitious shudder. Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville would in the 
course of the day receive a scrap of paper from some 
mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in the 
pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him 
by someone in the crowd, whilst he was on his way to 
the sitting of the Committee of Public Safety. The 
paper always contained a brief notice that the band of 
meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was 
always signed with a device drawn in red — a little star- 
shaped flower, which we in England call the Scarlet 
Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of this 
impudent notice, the citoyen^ of the Committee of 
Public Safety would hear that so many royalists and 
aristocrats had succeeded in reaching the coast, and 
were on their way to England and safety. 

The guards at the gates had been doubled, the 
sergeants in command had been threatened with death, 
whilst liberal rewards were offered for the capture of 
these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was 
a sum of fire thousand francs promised to the man 


6 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


who laid hands on the mysterious and elusive Scarlet 
Pimpernel. 

Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and 
Bibot allowed that belief to take firm root in every- 
body’s mind; and so, day after day, people came to 
watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he 
laid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be 
accompanied by that mysterious Englishman. 

“ Bah ! ” he said to his trusted corporal, “ Citoyen 
Grospierre was a fool ! Had it been me now, at that 
North Gate last week . . 

Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his 
contempt for his comrade’s stupidity. 

“ How did it happen, citoyen ? " asked the corporal. 

“Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch,* 
began Bibot, pompously, as the crowd closed in round 
him, listening eagerly to his narrative. 11 We’ve all heard 
of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed Scarlet 
Pimpernel. He won’t get through my gate, morbltu / 
unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a 
fool. The market carts were going through the gates ; 
there was one laden with casks, and driven by ac old 
man, with a uoy beside him. Grospierre was a bit 
drunk, but he thought himself very clever ; he looked 
into the casks — most of them, at least — and saw they 
were empty, and let the cart go through.* 

A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the 
group of ill clad wretches, who crowded round Citoyen 
Bibot. 

“Half an hour later,” continued the sergeant, “up 
comes a captain of the guard with a squad of some 
dozen soldiers with him. 4 Has a cart gone through?* 
he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. * Yes,’ says Gros- 
pierre, 1 not half an hour ago.’ ‘ And you have let them 


7 


PARIS; SEPTEMBER 1792 

escape/ shouts the captain furiously. ‘You’ll go to 
the guillotine for this, citoyen sergeant! that cart 
held concealed the ci-devant Due de Chalis and all his 
family ! ’ ‘What ! * thunders Grospierre, aghast. ‘Aye ! 
and the driver was none other than that cursed English- 
man, the Scarlet Pimpernel.’” 

A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen 
Grospierre had paid for his blunder on the guillotine, 
but what a fool ! oh ! what a fool ! 

Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it 
was some time before he, could continue. 

“‘After them, my men,’ shouts the captain,” he 
said, after a while, “ ‘ remember the reward ; after them, 
they cannot have gone far ! ’ And with that he rushes 
through the gate, followed by his dozen soldiers.” 

“ But it was too late ! ” shouted the crowd, excitedly. 
“ They never got them ! ” 

“ Curse that Grospierre for his folly ! ” 

“ He deserved his fate ! ” 

“ Fancy not examining those casks properly ! ” 

But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot 
exceedingly ; be laughed until his sides ached, and the 
tears streamed down his cheeks. 

“ Nay, nay 1 ” he said at last, “ those aristos 
weren’t in the cart ; the driver was not the Scarlet 
Pimpernel ! ” 

“What?” 

“ No ! The captain of the guard was that damned 
Englishman in disguise, and everyone of his soldiers 
aristos ! ” 

The crowd this time said nothing; the story cer- 
tainly savoured of the supernatural, and though the 
Republic had abolished God, it had not quite succeeded 
in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of the 


8 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil 
himself. 

The sun was sinking low down in the west. Eibot 
prepared himself to close the gates. 

“ En avant the carts,” he said. 

Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, 
ready to leave town, in order to fetch the produce 
from the country close by, for market the next morning. 
They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went 
through his gate twice every day on their way to and 
from the town. He spoke to one or two of their drivers 
— mostly women — and was at great pains to examine 
the inside of the carts. 

“ You never know,” he would say, .*• and I’m not going 
to be caught like that fool Grospierre,” 

The women who drove the carts usually spent their da] 
on the Place de la Gr£ve, beneath the platform of thi 
guillotine, knitting and gossiping, whilst they watchec 
the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims the Reigr 
of Terror claimed every day. It was great fuc 
to see the aristos arriving for the reception of Madame 
la Guillotine, and the places close by the platform were 
very much sought after. Bibot, during the day, had 
been on duty on the Place. He recognized most jf the 
old hags, “ tricotteuses,” as they were called, who sat 
there and knitted, whilst head after head fell beneath thr 
knife, and they themselves got quite bespattered with 
the blood of those cursed aristos. 

“ H6 ! la m&re ! ” said Bibot to one of these hornbic 
bags, “ what have you got there ? ” 

He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting 
and the whip of her cart close beside her. Now she 
had fastened a row of curly locks to the whip handle, 
all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and she 


PARIS: SEPTEMBER 1792 9 

stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed 
at Bibot. 

“ I made friends with Madame Guillotine’s lover,” she 
said with a coarse laugh, “ he cut these off for me from 
the heads as they rolled down. He has promised me 
some more to-morrow, but I don’t know if I shall be at 
my usual place.” 

“ Ah ! how is that, la m£re ? ” asked Bibot, who, 
hardened soldier though he was, could not help shudder- 
ing at the awful loathsomeness of this semblance of a 
woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her whip. 

“ My grandson has got the small-pox,” she said with a 
jerk of her thumb towards the inside of her cart, “some 
say it’s the plague ! If it is, I sha’n’t be allowed to come 
into Paris to-morrow.” 

At the first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had 
stepped hastily backwards, and when the old hag spoke 
of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could. 

“ Curse you ! ” he muttered, whilst the whole crowd 
hastily avoided the cart, leaving it standing all alone in 
the midst of the place. 

The old hag laughed. 

“Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward,” she said. 
“Bah ! what a man to be afraid of sickness.” 

“ Morbleu l the plague 1 ” 

Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror 
for the loathsome malady, the one thing which still had 
the power to arouse terror and disgust in these savage, 
brutalised creatures. 

“Get out with you and with your plague-stricken 
brood ! ” shouted Bibot, hoarsely. 

And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old 
hag. whipped up her lean nag and drove her cart out of 
the gate. 


10 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people 
were terrified of these two horrible curses, the two 
maladies which nothing could cure, and which were the 
precursors of an awful and lonely death They hung ( 
about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, 
eyeing one another suspiciously, avoiding each other as 
if by instinct, lest the plague lurked already in their 
midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre, a captain 
of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to 
Bibot, and there was no fear of his turning out to be a 
sly Englishman in disguise. 

“ A cart, ^ he shouted breathlessly, even before 
he had reached the gates. 

“What cart?” asked Bibot, roughly. 

“ Driven by an old hag. ... A covered cart ..." 

“ There were a dozen ..." 

“ An old hag who said her son had the plague ? ” 

“Yes ...” 

“You have not let them go?” 

“ Morbleu 1 ” said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had 
suddenly become white with fear. 

“The cart contained the ci-devant Comtesse de 
Tournay and her two children, all of them traitors and 
condemned to death.” 

“ And their driver ? ” muttered Bibot, as a superstitious 
shudder ran down his spine. 

“ Sacri tonncrre,” said the captain, “but it is feared 
that it was that accursed Englishman himself — the 
Scarlet PimperneL” 


CHAPTER Ii 

cover: “the fisherman’s rest" 

Ik the kitchen Sally was extremely busy — saucepans 
and frying-pans were standing in rows on the gigantic 
hearth, the huge stock-pot stood in a corner, and the 
jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented 
alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of 
beef. The two little kitchen-maids bustled around, 
eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well 
tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over 
some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally’s 
back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid 
in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued 
grumble, while she stirred the stock -pot methodically over 
the fire. 

“ What ho ! Sally ! ” came in cheerful if none too 
melodious accents from the coffee-room close by. 

“ Lud bless my soul ! ” exclaimed Sally, with a good- 
humoured laugh, “what be they all wanting now, I 
wonder 1 ” 

“Beer, of course,” grumbled Jemima, “you don’t 
’xpect Jimmy Pitkin to ’ave done with one tankard, do 
ye?” 

“ Mr ’ Arry, *e looked uncommon thirsty too,” simpered 
Martha, one of the little kitchen-maids ; and her beady 
black eyes twinkled as they ma those of her companion, 


12 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


whereupon both started on a round of short and sup- 
pressed giggles. 

Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully 
rubbed her hands against her shapely hips ; her palms f| 
were itching, evidently, to come in contact with Martha’s 
rosy cheeks — but inherent good-humour prevailed, and 
with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her 
attention to the fried potatoes. 

11 What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!” 

And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient 
hands against the oak tables of the coffee-room, accom- 
panied the shouts for mine host’s buxom daughter. 

“Sally!” shouted a more persistent voice, “are ye 
goin’ to be all night with that there beer ? ” 

“I do think father might get the beer for them,” 
muttered Sally, as Jemima, stolidly and without further 
comment, took a couple of foam-crowned jugs from the 
shelf, and began filling a number of pewter tankard* 
with some of that home-brewed ale for which “The 
Fisherman’s Rest ” had been famous since the days o' 
King Charles. “ ’E knows ’ow busy we are in ’ere.” 

“ Your father is too busy discussing politics with M 
’Empseed to worry ’isself about you and the kitchen,’ 
grumbled Jemima under her breath. 

Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a 
corner of the kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her 
hair and setting her frilled cap at its most becoming 
angle over her dark curls ; then she took up the tankards 
by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and 
laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through 
into the coffee-room. 

There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and 
activity which kept four women busy and hot in the 
glowing kitchen beyond. 


DOVER : “ THE FISHERMAN’S REST * 1 1 

The coffee-room of “The Fisherman’s Rest” is a 
show place now at the beginning of the twentieth cen- 
tury. At the end of the eighteenth, in the year of grace 
1792, it had not yet gained that notoriety and import- 
ance which a hundred additional years and the craze of 
the age have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an 
old place, even then; for the oak rafters and beams were 
already black with age — as were the panelled seats, with 
their tall backs, and the long polished tables between, 
on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic 
patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window, 
high up, a row of pots of scarlet geraniums and blue 
larkspur gave the bright note of colour against the dull 
background of the oak. 

That Mr Jellyband, landlord of “ The Fisherman’s 
Rest” at Dover, was a prosperous man, was of course 
clear to the most casual observer. The pewter on the 
fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth, 
shone like gold and silver — the red-tiled floor was as 
brilliant as the scarlet geranium on the window sill — 
this meant that his servants were good and plentiful, that 
the custom was constant, and of that order which neces- 
sitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high 
standard of elegance and order. 

As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and 
displaying a row of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted 
with shouts and chorus of applause. 

“Why, here’s Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for 
pretty Sally ! ” 

“ I thought you’d grown deaf in that kitchen of yours,” 
muttered Jimmy Pitkin, as he passed the back of his 
hand across his very dry lips. 

“ All ri’ ! all ri’ ! ” laughed Sally, as she deposited the 
freshly-filled tankards upon the tables, “why, what a 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


14 

’urry, to be sure ! And is your gran’mother a-dyin', an 1 
you wantin’ to see the pore soul afore sbe’m gone ! I 
never see’d such a mighty rushin’ ! ” 

A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this 
witticism, which gave the company there present, food 
for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now 
seemed in less of a hurry to get back to her pots and 
pans. A young man with fair curly hair, and eager, 
bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her attention 
and the whole of her time, whilst broad witticisms anent 
Jimmy Pitkin’s fictitious grandmother flew from mouth 
to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of pungent tobacco 
%moke. 

Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay 
pipe in his mouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr 
Jellyband, landlord of “The Fisherman’s Rest,” as his 
father had been before him, aye, and his grandfather 
and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in 
build, jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, 
Mr Jellyband was indeed a typical rural John Bull of 
those days — the days when our prejudiced insularity 
was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he lord, 
yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of 
Europe was a den of immorality, and the rest of the 
world an unexploited land of savages and cannibals. 

There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set 
up on his limbs, smoking his long churchwarden and 
caring nothing for nobody at home, and despising 
everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waist- 
coat, with shiny brass buttons, tb*. corduroy breeches, 
the grey worsted stockings and smart buckled shoes, 
that characterised every self-respecting innkeeper in 
Great Britain in these days— and while pretty, motherless 
Sally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do all the 


DOVER: “THE FISHERMAN’S REST* 15 

work that fell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jelly- 
band discussed the affairs of nations with his most 
privileged guests. 

The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished 
lamps, which hung from the raftered ceiling, looked 
cheerful and cosy in the extreme. Through the dense 
clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every 
corner, the faces of Mr Jelly band’s customers appeared 
red and pleasant to look at, and on good terms with 
themselves, their host and all the world ; from every 
side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant, if 
not highly intellectual, conversation — while Sally’s re- 
peated giggles testified to the good use Mr Harry Waite 
was making of the short time she seemed inclined to 
spare him. 

They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr 
Jellyband’s coffee-room, but fishermen are known to 
be very thirsty people ; the salt which they breathe in, 
when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched 
throats when onshore. But “The Fisherman’s Rest” 
was something more than a rendezvous for these humble 
folk. The London and Dover coach started from the 
hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the 
Channel, and those who started for the “ grand tour, f> 
all became acquainted with Mr Jelly band, his French 
wines and his home-brewed ales. 

It was towards the close of September 179a, aad the 
weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout 
the month had suddenly broken up; for two days 
torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, 
doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples 
and pears and late plums had of becoming really 
fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating 
against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the 


10 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the 
hearth. 

“ Lud ! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr 
Jellyband?'' asked Mr Hempseed. 

He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr 
Hempseed, for he was an authority and an important per- 
sonage not only at “The Fisherman's Rest," where Mr 
Jellyband always made a special selection of him as a 
foil for political arguments, but throughout the neigh- 
bourhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge 
of the Scriptures, was held in the most profound awe 
and respect. With one hand buried in the capacious 
pockets of his corduroys underneath his elaborately- 
worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long 
clay pipe, Mr Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly 
across the room at the rivulets of moisture which 
trickled down the window panes. 

“No,” replied Mr Jellyband- sententiously, “ I dunno, 
Mr 'Empseed, as I ever did. An’ I’ve been in these 
parts nigh on sixty years.” 

“ Aye ! you wouldn't rec’llect the first three years o i 
them sixty, Mr Jellyband,” quietly interposed Mr Hemp- 
seed. “ I dunno as I ever see’d an infant take much 
note of the weather, leastways not in these parts, an’ 
lived 'ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr Jellyband.” 

The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable 
that for the moment Mr Jellyband was not ready with 
his usual flow of argument. 

“ It do seem more like April than September, don't 
it ? ” continued Mr Hempseed, dolefully, as a shower of 
rain-dH'ps fell with a sizzle upon the fire. 

“Aye! that it do,” assented the worthy host, “but 
then what can you 'xpect, Mr 'Empseed, I says, with 
tich a government as we've got?" 


DOVER: “THE FISHERMAN’S REST ” 17 

Mr Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of 
wisdom, tempered by deeply-rooted mistrust of the 
British climate and the British Government 

“I don’t ’xpect nothing, Mr Jelly band,” he said. 
'* Pore folks like us is of no account up there in Lunnon, 
I knows that, and it’s not often as I do complain. But 
when it comes to sich wet weather in September, and all 
me fruit a-rottin’ and a-dyin’ like the ’Guptian mother’s 
first-born, and doin’ no more good than they did, pore 
dears, save to a lot of Jews, pedlars and sich, with 
their oranges and sich like foreign ungodly fruit, which 
nobody’d buy if English apples and pears was nicely 
swelled. As the Scriptures say — 

“That’s quite right, Mr ’Empseed,” retorted Jelly- 
band “ and as I says, what can you ’xpect ? There’s 
all them Frenchy devils over the Channel yonder a- 
murderin’ their king and nobility, and Mr Pitt and Mr 
Fox and Mr Burke a-fightin’ and a- wranglin’ between 
them, if we Englishmen should ’low them to go on in 
their ungodly way. ‘ Let ’em murder ! ’ says Mr Pitt. 
‘Stop ’em !’ says Mr Burke.” 

“ And let ’em murder, says I, and be demmed to ’em,” 
said Mr Hempseed, emphatically, for he had but little 
liking for his friend Jellyband’s political arguments, 
wherein he always got out of his depth, and had but 
little chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom which 
had earned for him so high a reputation in the neigh- 
bourhood and so many free tankards of ale at “ The 
Fisherman’s Rest.” 

“Let ’em murder,” he repeated again, “but don’t let’* 
’ave sich rain in September, for that is agin the law and 
the Scriptures which says — ” 

“ Lud 1 Mr ’Arry, ’ow you made me jump ! ” 

It was unfortunate for Sally and her flirtation that this 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


iS 

remark of hers should have occurred at the precise 
moment when Mr Hempseed was collecting his breath, 
in order to deliver himself of one of those Scriptural 
utterances which had made him famous, for it brought 
down upon her pretty head the full flood of her father’s 
wrath. 

“ Now then, Sally, me girl, now then ! " he said, trying 
to force a frown upon his good-humoured face, “ stop 
that fooling with them young jackanapes and get on 
with the work.” 

“ The work’s gettin’ on all ri% father.” 

But Mr Jelly band was peremptory. He had other 
views for his buxom daughter, his only child, who would 
in God’s good time become the owner of “ The Fisher- 
man’s Rest,” than to see her married to one of these 
young fellows who earned but a precarious livelihood 
with their net. 

“ Did ye hear me speak, me girl ? ” he said in that 
quiet tone, which no one inside the inn dared to disobey. 
“Get on with my Lord Tony’s supper, for, if it ain’t the 
best we can do, and ’e not satisfied, see what you’ll get, 
that’s all.” 

Reluctantly Sally obeyed. 

“Is you’xpecting special guests then to-night, Mr 
Jellyband?” asked Jimmy Pitkin, in a loyal attempt to 
divert his host’s attention from the circumstances con- 
nected with Sally’s exit from the room. 

“Aye! that I be,” replied Jellyband, “friends of my 
Lord Tony hisself. Dukes and duchesses from over the 
water yonder, whom the young lord and his friend, Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes, and other young noblemen have 
helped out of the clutches of them murderin' devils.” 

But this was too much for Mr Hempseed’s querulous 
philosophy. 


DOVER : “ THE FISHERMAN'S REST ” 19 

“ Lud ! ” he said, M what they do that for, I wonder ? 
I don’t 'old not with interferin' in other folks’ ways. As 
the Scriptures say — " 

“Maybe, Mr 'Empseed,” interrupted Jellyband, 
with biting sarcasm, “ as you’re a personal friend of Mr 
Pitt, and as you says along with Mr Fox: ‘Let ’em 
murder ! ’ says you. " 

“Pardon me, Mr Jellyband," feebly protested Mr 
Hempseed, “I dunno as I ever did.” 

But Mr Jellyband had at last succeeded in getting 
upon his favourite hobby-horse, and had no intention of 
dismounting in any hurry. 

“Or maybe you’ve made friends with some of them 
French chaps ’00 they do say have come over here o’ pur- 
pose to make us Englishmen agree with their murderin’ 

ways.” 

“I dunno what you mean, Mr Jellyband,” suggested 
Mr Hempseed, “all I know is — " 

“All / know is,” loudly asserted mine host, “that 
there was my friend Peppercorn, ’00 owns the ‘ Blue- 
Faced Boar,’ an’ as true and loyal an Englishman as 
you’d see in the land. And now look at ’im ! — ’E made 
friends with some o’ them frog-eaters, ’obnobbed with 
them just as if they was Englishmen, and not just a lot 
of immoral, God-forsaking furrin’ spies. Well 1 and 
what happened ? Peppercorn 'e now ups and talks of 
revolutions, and liberty, and down with the aristocrats, 
just like Mr ’Empseed over ’ere ! ” 

“Pardon me, Mr Jellyband,” again interposed Mr 
Hempseed, feebly, “ I dunno as I ever did — ” 

Mr Jellyband had appealed to the company in general, 
who were listening awe-struck and open-mouthed at the 
recital of Mr Peppercorn’s defalcations. At one table 
two customers — gentlemen apparently by their clothes 


20 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


—had pushed aside their half-finished game of dominoes* 
and had been listening for some time, and evidently 
with much amusement at Mr Jelly band’s international 
opinions. One of them now, with a quiet, sarcastic 
smile still lurking round the corners of his mobile 
mouth, turned towards the centre of the room where 
Mr Jelly band was standing. 

“You seem to think, mine honest friend,” he said 
quietly, “that these Frenchmen — spies I think you 
called them — are mighty clever fellows to have made 
mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr Peppercorn’s 
opinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you ? " 

“Lud! sir, I suppose they talked ’im over. Those 
Frenchies, I’ve ’eard it said, ’ave got the gift of the gab 
— and Mr ’Empsced ’ere will tell you ’ow it is that they 
just twist some people round their little finger like.” 

“ Indeed, and is that so, Mr Hempseed ? ” inquired 
the stranger politely. 

“ Nay, sir ! ” replied Mr Hempseed, much irritated, 
“I dunno as I can give you the information you 
require.” 

“Faith, then,” said the stranger, “let us hope, my 
worthy host, that these clever spies will not succeed in 
upsetting your extremely loyal opinions.” 

But this was too much for Mr Jelly band’s pleasant 
equanimity. He burst into an uproarious fit of laughter, 
which was soon echoed by those who happened to be in 
his debt. 

“ Hahaha ! hohoho ! hehehe ! ” He laughed in every 
key, did my worthy host, and laughed until his sides 
ached, and his eyes streamed. “ At me ! hark at that ! 
Did ye ’ear 'im say that they’d be upsettin’ my opinions ? 
— Eh ? — Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer 
things." 


DOVER : “THE FISHERMAN’S REST » m 


“Well, Mr Jelly band,” said Mr Hempseed, senten* 
tiously, “ you know what the Scriptures say : ‘ Let 'im 
’oo stands take ’eed lest ’e fell.’ * 

“But then hark’ee, Mr ’Empseed,” retorted Jellyband, 
still holding his sides with laughter, “ the Scriptures 
didn’t know me. Why, I wouldn’t so much as drink a 
glass of ale with one o’ them murderin’ Frenchmen, and 
nothin’ ’d make me change my opinions. Why 1 I’ve 
’eard it said that them frog-eaters can’t even speak the 
King’s English, so, of course, if any of ’em tried to 
speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should 
spot them directly, see ! — and forewarned is forearmed, 
as the saying goes.” 

“Aye! my honest friend,” assented the stranger 
cheerfully, “ I see that you are much too sharp, and a 
match for any twenty Frenchmen, and here’s to your 
very good health, my worthy host, if you’ll do me the 
honour to finish this bottle of mine with me.” 

“I am sure you’re very polite, sir,” said Mr Jellyband, 
wiping his eyes which were still streaming with the 
abundance of his laughter, “ and I don’t mind if I do.” 

The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of 
wine, and having offered one to, mine host, he took the 
other himself. 

“Loyal Englishmen as we all are,” he said, whilst the 
same humorous smile played round the corners of his 
thin lips — “ loyal as we are, we must admit that this at 
least is one good thing which comes to us from France.” 

“ Aye ! we’ll none of us deny that, sir,” assented mine 
host. 

“And here's to the best landlord in England, our 
worthy host, Mr Jellyband,” said the stranger in a loud 
tone of voice. 

“Hip, hip, hurrah!” retorted the whole company 


22 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


/ 


present. Then there was loud clapping of hands, and 
mugs and tankards made a rattling music upon the 
tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter at nothing 
in particular, and of Mr Jelly band’s muttered exclama- 
tions: 

“Just fancy me bein’ talked over by any God-forsaken 
furriner! — What? — Lud love you, sir, but yon do say 
some queer things.’* 

To which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented. 
It was certainly a preposterous suggestion that anyone 
could ever upset Mr Jellyband’s firmly-rooted opinions 
anent the utter worthlessness of the inhabitants of tha 
whole continent of Europe. 


CHAPTER III 


THE REFUGEES 

Feeling in every part of England certainly ran very 
high at this time against the French and their doings. 
Smugglers and legitimate traders between the French 
and English coasts brought snatches of news from over 
the water, which made every honest Englishman’s blood 
boil, and made him long to have “ a good go ” at those 
murderers, who had imprisoned their king and all his 
family, subjected the queen and the royal children to 
every species of indignity, and were even now loudly 
demanding the blood of the whole Bourbon family and 
of every one of its adherents. 

The execution of the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie 
Antoinette’s young and charming friend, had filled every 
one in England with unspeakable horror, the daily 
execution of scores of royalists of good family, whose 
only sin was their aristocratic name, seemed to cry for 
vengeance to the whole of civilised Europe. 

Yet, with all that, no one dared to interfere. Burke 
had exhausted all his eloquence in trying to induce the 
British Government to fight the revolutionary govern- 
ment of France, but Mr Pitt, with characteristic prudence, 
did not feel that this country was fit yet to embark on 
another ardupus and costly war. It was for Austria to 
take the initiative ; Austria, whose fairest daughter was 
«3 


24 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


even now a dethroned queen, imprisoned and insulted 
by a howling mob: and surely ’twas not — so argued 
Mr Fox — for the whole of England to take up arms, 
because one set of Frenchmen chose to murder another. 

As for Mr Jellyband and his fellow John Bulls, though 
they looked upon all foreigners with withering contempt, 
they were royalist and anti-revolutionists to a man, and 
at this present moment were furious with Pitt for his 
caution and moderation, although they naturally under- 
stood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided 
that great man’s policy. 

But now Sally came running back, very excited and 
very eager. The joyous company in the coffee-room 
had heard nothing of the noise outside, but she had 
spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped at the 
door of “The Fisherman’s Rest,” and while the stable 
boy ran forward to take charge of the horse, pretty Miss 
Sally went to the front door to greet the welcome visitor. 

“ I think I see’d my Lord Antony’s horse out in the 
yard, father,” she said, as she ran across the coffee-room. 

But already the door had been thrown open from out- 
side, and the next moment an arm, covered in drab cloth 
and dripping with the heavy rain, was round pretty 
Sally’s waist, while a hearty voice echoed along the 
polished rafters of the coffee-room. 

“ Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, 
my pretty Sally,” said the man who had just entered, 
whilst worthy Mr Jellyband came bustling forward, 
eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of one of 
the most favoured guests of his hostel. 

“ Lud, I protest, Sally,” added Lord Antony, as he 
deposited a kiss on Miss Sally’s blooming cheeks, “ but 
you are growing prettier and prettier every time I see 
you — and my honest friend, Jellyband here, must have 


THE REFUGEES 


hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of 
yours. What say you, Mr Waite ? ” 

Mr Waite — torn between his respect for my lord and 
his dislike of that particular type of joke — only replied 
with a doubtful grunt. 

Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke 
of Exeter, was in those days a very perfect type of a 
young English gentleman — tall, well set-up, broad of 
shoulders and merry of face, his laughter rang loudly 
wherever he went. A good sportsman, a lively com- 
panion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with 
not too much brains to spoil his temper, he was a 
universal favourite in London drawing-rooms or in the 
coffee-rooms of village inns. At “ The Fisherman’s Rest ” 
everyone knew him — for he was fond of a trip across to 
France, and always spent a night under worthy Mr 
Jellyband’s roof on his way there or back. 

He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at 
last released Sally’s waist, and crossed over to the hearth 
to warm and dry himself : as he did so, he cast a quick, 
somewhat suspicious glance at the two strangers, who 
had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and for a 
moment a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, 
clouded his jovial young face. 

But only for a moment ; the next he had turned to 
Mr Hempseed, who was respectfully touching his 
forelock. 

“Well, Mr Hempseed, and how is the fruit?” 

“ Badly, my lord, badly,” replied Mr Hempseed, dole- 
fully, “but what can you ’xpect with this ’ere govern- 
ment favourin’ them rascals over in France, who would 
murder their king and all their nobility.” 

“ Odd’s life ! ” retorted Lord Antony ; “ so they would, 
honest Hempseed, — at least those they can get hold of, 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


worse luck ! But we have got some friends coming here 
to-night, who at anyrate have evaded their clutches.” 

It almost seemed, when the young man said these 
words, as if he threw a defiant look towards the quiet 
strangers in the corner. 

“ Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I’ve 
heard it said,” said Mr Jelly band. 

But in a moment Lord Antony’s hand fell warningly 
on mine host’s arm. 

“ Hush ! ” he said peremptorily, and instinctively once 
again looked towards the strangers. 

“ Oh ! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord,” 
retorted Jellyband ; “don’t you be afraid. I wouldn’t 
have spoken, only I knew we were among friends. That 
gentleman over there is as true and loyal a subject of 
King George as you are yourself, my lord, saving your 
presence. He is but lately arrived in Dover, and is 
settling down in business in these parts.” 

“In business? Faith, then, it must be as an under- 
taker, for I vow I never beheld a more rueful coun- 
tenance.” 

“Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a 
widower, which no doubt would account for the melan- 
choly of his bearing — but he is a friend, nevertheless, 111 
vouch for that — and you will own, my lord, that who 
should judge of a face better than the landlord of a 
popular inn — ” 

“Oh, that’s all right, then, if we are among friends,” 
said Lord Antony, who evidently did not care to discuss 
the subject with his host. “ But, tell me, you have no 
one else staying here, have you ? ” 

“No one, my lord, and no one coming, either, lea* 
ways — ” 

“ Leastways ? " 


THE REFUGEES 27 

“ No one your lordship would object to, I know.” 

“Who is it?” 

“Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will 
be here presently, but they ain’t a-goin’ to stay — ” 

“Lady Blakeney?” queried Lord Antony, in some 
astonishment. 

“Aye, my lord. Sir Percy’s skipper was here just 
now. He says that my lady’s brother is crossing over ’ 
to France to-day in the Day Dream , which is Sir Percy’s 
yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady will come with him as 
far as here to see the last of him. It don’t put you out, 
do it, my lord ? ” 

“No, no, it doesn’t put me out, friend; nothing will 
put me out, unless that supper is not the very best which 
Miss Sally can cook, and which has ever been served in 
1 The Fisherman’s Rest.’ ” 

“ You need have no fear of that, my lord,” said Sally, 
who all this while had been busy setting the table for 
supper. And very gay and inviting it looked, with a 
large bunch of brilliantly coloured dahlias in the centre, 
and the bright pewter goblets and blue china about. 

“ How many shall I lay for, my lord ? ” 

“Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be 
enough for ten at least — our friends will be tired, and, 

I hope, hungry. As for me, I vow I could demolish a 
baron of beef to-night.” 

“ Here they are, I do believe,” said Sally, excitedly, 
as a distant clatter of horses and wheels could now be 
distinctly heard, drawing rapidly nearer. 

There was general commotion in the coffee-room. 
Everyone was curious to see my Lord Antony’s swell 
friends from over the water. Miss Sally cast one or two 
quick glances at the little bit of mirror which hung on 
the wall, and worthy Mr Jelly band bustled out in order 


2 8 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


to give the first welcome himself to his distinguished 
guests. Only the two strangers in the corner did not 
participate in the general excitement. They were 
calmly finishing their game of dominoes, and did not 
even look once towards the door. 

“ Straight ahead, Comtesse, the door on your right/' 
said a pleasant voice outside. 

“ Aye ! there they are, all right enough,” said Lord 
Antony, joyfully ; “ off with you, my pretty Sally, and see 
how quickly you can dish up the soup.” 

The door was thrown wide open, and, preceded by 
Mr Jellyband, who was profuse in his bows and 
welcomes, a party of four — two ladies and two gentle- 
men — entered the coffee-room. 

‘‘Welcome! Welcome to old England!” said Lord 
Antony, effusively, as he came eagerly forward with both 
hands outstretched towards the newcomers. 

“ Ah, you are Lord Antony Dewhurst, I think,” said 
one of the ladies, speaking with a strong foreign accent. 

“ At your service, Madame,” he replied, as he 
ceremoniously kissed the hands of both the ladies, 
then turned to the men and shook them both warmly 
by the hand. 

Sally was already helping the ladies to take off their 
travelling cloaks, and both turned, with a shiver, towards 
the brightly-blazing hearth. 

There was a general movement among the company 
in the coffee-room. Sally had bustled off to her 
kitchen, whilst Jellyband, still profuse with his respect- 
ful salutations, arranged one or two chairs around the fire. 
Mr Hempseed, touching his forelock, was quietly 
vacating the seat in the hearth. Everyone was staring 
curiously, yet deferentially, at the foreigners. 

“ Ah, Messieurs ! what can I say ? ” said the elder of 


THE REFUGEES 


29 

the two ladies, as she stretched a pair of fine, aristocratic 
hands to the warmth of the blaze, and looked with un- 
speakable gratitude first at Lord Antony, then at one of 
the young men who had accompanied her party, and 
who was busy divesting himself of his heavy, caped coat. 

“ Only that you are glad to be in England, Comtesse,” 
replied Lord Antony, “ and that you have not suffered 
too much from your trying voyage.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, we are glad to be in England,” she 
said, while her eyes filled with tears, “ and we have 
already forgotten all that we have suffered.” 

Her voice was musical and low, and there was a 
great deal of calm dignity and of many sufferings nobly 
endured marked in the handsome, aristocratic face, 
with its wealth of snow-white hair dressed high above 
the forehead, after the fashion of the times. 

“ I hope my friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, proved an 
entertaining travelling companion, madame ? ” 

“Ah, indeed, Sir Andrew was kindness itself. How 
could my children and I ever show enough gratitude to 
you all, Messieurs ? ” 

Her companion, a dainty, girlish figure, childlike and 
pathetic in its look of fatigue and of sorrow, had said 
nothing as yet, but her eyes, large, brown, and full of 
tears, looked up from the fire and sought those of Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes, who had drawn near to the hearth 
and to her; then, as they met his, which were fixed 
with unconcealed admiration upon the sweet face 
before him, a thought of warmer colour rushed up to 
her pale cheeks. 

“So this is England,” she said, as she looked round 
with childlike curiosity at the great open hearth, the oak 
rafters, and the yokels with their elaborate smocks and 
jovial, rubicund, British countenances. 


30 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


“A bit of it, Mademoiselle,” replied Sir Andrew, 
smiling, “ but all of it, at your service.” 

The young girl blushed again, but this time a bright 
smile, fleet and sweet, illumined her dainty face. She 
said nothing, and Sir Andrew too, was silent, yet those 
two young people understood one another, as young 
people have a way of doing all the world over, and have 
done since the world began. 

“ But, I say, supper ! ” here broke in Lord Antony’s 
jovial voice, “supper, honest Jelly band. Where is that 
pretty wench of yours and the dish of soup ? Zooks, 
man, while you stand there gaping at the ladies, they 
will faint with hunger.” 

“One moment! one moment, my lord,” said Jelly- 
band, as he threw open the door that led to the kitchen 
and shouted lustily : “ Sally ! Hey, Sally there, are ye 
ready, my girl ? ” 

Sally was ready, and the next moment she appeared 
in the doorway carrying a gigantic tureen, from which 
rose a cloud of steam and an abundance of savoury odour. 

“ Odd’s my life, supper at last ! ” ejaculated Lord 
Antony, merrily, as he gallantly offered his arm to the 
Comtesse. 

“ May I have the honour ? ” he added ceremoniously, 
as he led her towards the supper table. 

There was general bustle in the coffee-room : Mr 
Hempseed and most of the yokels and fisher-folk had 
gone to make way for “the quality,” and to finish 
smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two strangers 
stayed on, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game 
of dominoes and sipping their wine ; whilst at another 
table Harry Waite, who was fast losing his temper, 
watched pretty Sally bustling round the table. 

She looked a very dainty picture of English rural life, 
And no wonder that the susceptible young Frenchman 


THE RE1/UGEES 


31 


could scarce take his eyes off her pretty face. The 
Vicomte de Tournay was scarce nineteen, a beard- 
less boy, on whom the terrible tragedies which were 
being enacted in his own country had made but little 
impression. He was elegantly, and even foppishly 
dressed, and once safely landed in England he was 
evidently ready to forget the horrors of the Revolution 
in the delights of English life. 

“Pardi, if zis is England,” he said as he continued to 
ogle Sally with marked satisfaction, “ I am of it satisfied,’* 

It would be impossible at this point to record the 
exact exclamation which escaped through Mr Harry 
Waite’s clenched teeth. Only respect for “ the quality,” 
and notably for my Lord Antony, kept his marked dis- 
approval of the young foreigner in check. 

“Nay, but this is England, you abandoned young 
reprobate,” interposed Lord Antony with a laugh, “and 
do not I pray, bring your loose foreign ways into this 
most moral country.” 

Lord Antony had already sat down at the head of the 
table with the Comtesse on his right. Jelly band was 
bustling round, filling glasses and putting chairs straight, 
Sally waited, ready to hand round the soup. Mr Harry 
Waite’s friends had at last succeeded in taking him out 
of the room, for his temper was growing more and more 
violent under the Vicomte’s obvious admiration for Sally. 

“Suzanne,” came in stern, commanding accents from 
the rigid Comtesse. 

Suzanne blushed again ; she had lost count of time and 
of place, whilst she had stood beside the fire, allowing 
the handsome young Englishman’s eyes to dwell upon 
her sweet face, and his hand, as if unconsciously, to rest 
upon hers. Her mother’s voice brought her back to 
reality once more, and with a submissive “Yes, Mama," 
»hc too took her place at the supper table. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they 
sat round the table ; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord 
Antony Dewhurst, two typical good-looking, well-born 
and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace 1792, 
and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two 
children, who had just escaped from such dire perils, and 
found a safe retreat at last on the shores of protecting 
England. 

In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished 
their game; one of them arose, and standing with his 
back to the merry company at the table, he adjusted with 
much deliberation his large triple caped coat. As he did 
so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone 
was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the 
words “ All safe ! ” : his companion then, with the alertness 
borne of long practice, slipped on to his knees in a 
moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the 
oak bench. The stranger then with a loud “ Good-night,” 
quietly walked out of the coffee-room. 

Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this 
curious and silent manoeuvre, but when the stranger 
finally closed the door of the coffee-room behind him, 
they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief. 

“ Alone, at last I ” said Lord Antony, jovially. 

Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass is 


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 33 

hand, and with the graceful affectation peculiar to the 
times, he raised it aloft, and said in broken English, — 

“ To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless 
him for his hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France.” 

“ His Majesty the King ! ” echoed Lord Antony and 
Sir Andrew as they drank loyally to the toast 

“To His Majesty King Louis of France,” added Sir 
Andrew, with solemnity. “ May God protect him, and 
give him victory over his enemies.” 

Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The 
fate of the unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner 
of his own people, seemed to cast a gloom even over 
Mr Jellyband’s pleasant countenance. 

u And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive,” said 
Lord Antony, merrily. “May we welcome him in 
England before many days are over.” 

“Ah, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, as with a slightly 
trembling hand she conveyed her glass to her lips, “ 1 
scarcely dare to hope.” 

But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, 
and for the next few moments all conversation ceased, 
while Jellyband and Sally handed round the plates and 
everyone began to eat. 

“ Faith, Madame ! ” said Lord Antony, after a whilt, 
“mine was no idle toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle 
Suzanne and my friend the Yicomte safely in England 
now, surely you must feel reassured as to the r ate of 
Monsieur le Comte.” 

“Ah, Monsieur,” replied the Comtesse, with a heavy 
sigh, “ I trust in God — I can but pray — and hope . . ” 
“ Aye, Madame !” here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, 
“ trust in God by all means, but believe also a little in your 
English friends, who have sworn to bring the Count safely 


34 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

across the Channel, even as they have brought yon 
to-day.” 

“Indeed, indeed, Monsieur,” she replied, “I have the 
fullest confidence in you and in your friends. Your 
fame, I assure you, has spread throughout the whole of 
France. The way some of my own friends have escaped 
from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was 
nothing short of a miracle — and all done by you and 
your friends — ” 

“We were but the hands, Madame la Com tesse . , . * 

“But my husband, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, 
whilst unshed tears seemed to veil her voice, “ he is in 
such deadly peril — I would never have left him, 
only . . . there were my children ... I was torn 
between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go 
without me . . . and you and your friends assured me 
so solemnly that my husband would be safe. But, oh ! 
now that I am here — amongst you all — in this beautiful, 
free England — I think of him, flying for his life, hunted 
like a poor beast ... in such peril. . . . Ah ! I should 
not have left him ... I should not have left him ! . . . ” 

The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, 
sorrow and emotion had overmastered her rigid, aristo- 
cratic bearing. She was crying gently to herself, whilst 
Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her tears. 

Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to 
interrupt the Comtesse whilst she was speaking. There 
was no doubt that they felt deeply for her ; their very 
silence testified to that — but in every century, and ever 
since England has been what it is, an Englishman has 
always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of 
his own sympathy. And so the two young men said 
nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hide their feel- 
ings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish. 


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 35 

“As for me, Monsieur,” said Suzanne, suddenly, as 
she looked through a wealth of brown curls across at Sir 
Andrew, “ I trust you absolutely, and I know that you 
will bring my dear father safely to England, just as you 
brought us to-day.” 

This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered 
hope and belief, that it seemed as if by magic to dry the 
mother’s eyes, and to bring a smile upon everybody’s lips. 

“ Nay ! you shame me, Mademoiselle,” replied Sir 
Andrew; “though my life is at your service, I have 
been but a humble tool in the hands of our great leader, 
who organised and effected your escape.” 

He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence 
that Suzanne’s eyes fastened upon him in undisguised 
wonder. 

“Your leader, Monsieur?” said the Comtesse, eagerly. 
“Ah! of course, you must have a leader. And I did 
not think of that before ! But tell me where is he ? I 
must go to him at once, and I and my children must 
throw ourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he 
has done for us.” 

“ Alas, Madame ! ” said Lord Antony, M that is 
impossible.” 

“ Impossible ? — Why ? ” 

“ Because the Scarlet Pimpernel works in the dark, 
and his identity is only known under a solemn oath of 
secrecy to his immediate followers.” 

“ The Scarlet Pimpernel ? ” said Suzanne, with a merry 
laugh. “Why! what a droll name! What is the 
Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur ? ” 

She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The 
young man’s face had become almost transfigured. His 
eyes shone with enthusiasm ; hero-worship, love, admira- 
tion for his leader seemed literally to glow upon his face. 


36 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

“The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle,” he said at 
last “is the name of a humble English wayside flower ; 
but it is also the name chosen to hide the identity of the 
best and bravest man in all the world, so that he may 
better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has 
set himself to do.” 

“Ah, yes,” here interposed the young Vicomte, “I 
have heard speak of this Scarlet Pimpernel. A little 
flower — red ? — yes ! They say in Paris that every time 
a royalist escapes to England that devil, Foucquier- 
Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, receives a paper with 
that little flower dessinated in red upon it. . . . Yes?” 

“ Yes, that is so,” assented Lord Antony. 

“ Then he will have received one such paper to-day ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ Oh ! I wonder what he will say ! ” said Suzanne, 
merrily. “ I have heard that the picture of that little red 
flower is the only thing that frightens him.” 

“Faith, then,” said Sir Andrew, “he will have many 
more opportunities of studying the shape of that small 
scarlet flower.” 

“Ah ! monsieur,” sighed the Comtesse, “it all sounds 
like a romance, and I cannot understand it all.” 

“ Why should you try, Madame ? ” 

“But, tell me, why should your leader — why should 
you all — spend your money and risk your lives — for it 
is your lives you risk, Messieurs, when you set foot la 
France — and all for us French men and women, who are 
nothing to you ? ” 

“Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport,” asserted Lord 
Antony, with his jovial, loud and pleasant voice; “we are 
a nation of sportsmen, you know, and just now it is the 
fashion to pull the hare from between the teeth of the 
hound.” 


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 37 

“ Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur . . . you have a 
more noble motive, I am sure, for the good work you 
do.” 

“ Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then . as 
for me, I vow, I love the game, for this is the finest 
sport I have yet encountered. — Hair-breadth escapes , . . 
the devil’s own risks ! — Tally ho ! — and away we go ! ” 

But the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously. 
To her it seemed preposterous that these young men 
and their great leader, all of them rich, probably well- 
born, and young, should for no other motive than sport, 
run the terrible risks, which she knew they were constantly 
doing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in 
France, would be no safeguard to them. Anyone found 
harbouring or assisting suspected royalists would be 
ruthlessly condemned and summarily executed, what- 
ever his nationality might be. And this band of young 
Englishmen had, to her own knowledge, bearded the 
implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the Revolution, 
within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched 
away condemned victims, almost from the very foot of 
the guillotine. With a shudder, she recalled the events 
of the last few days, her escape from Paris with her two 
children, all three of them hidden beneath the hood of 
a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of turnips and 
cabbages, not daring to breathe, whilst the mob howled 
“A la lanterne les aristos ! ” at that awful West 
Barricade. 

It had all occurred in such a miraculous way : she and 
her husband had understood that they had been placed 
on the list of “ suspected persons,” which meant that their 
trial and death was but a matter of days — of hours, 
perhaps. 

Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious 


38 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

epistle, signed with the enigmatical scarlet device ; the 
clear, peremptory directions; the parting from the 
Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife’s heart 
in two ; the hope of reunion ; the flight with her two 
children ; the covered cart ; that awful hag driving it, 
who looked like some horrible evil demon, with the 
ghastly trophy on her whip handle ! 

The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old- 
fashioned English inn, the peace of this land of civil and 
religious liberty, and she closed her eyes to shut out the 
haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the mob 
retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the 
plague. 

Every moment under that cart she expected recogni- 
tion, arrest, herself and her children tried and con- 
demned, and these young Englishmen, under the 
guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had 
risked their lives to save them all, as they had already 
saved scores of other innocent people. 

And all only for sport ? Impossible ! Suzanne’s 
eyes as she sought those of Sir Andrew plainly told him 
that she thought that ht at any rate rescued his fellow- 
men from terrible and unmerited death, through a higher 
and nobler motive than his friend would have her 
believe. 

“ How many are there in your brave league, 
Monsieur?” she asked timidly. 

“Twenty all told, Mademoiselle,” he replied, “one to 
command, and nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, 
and all pledged to the same cause — to obey our leader 
and to rescue the innocent.” ^ 

“May God protect you all, Messieurs,” said the 
Comtesse, fervently. 

“He has done that so far, Madame . " 


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 39 

M It is wonderful to me, wonderful ! — That you should 
all be so brave, so devoted to your fellow-men — yet you 
are English ! — and in France treachery is rife — all in the 
name of liberty and fraternity.” 

“ The women even, in France, have been more bitter 
against us aristocrats than the men,” said the Vicomte, 
with a sigh. 

“ Ah, yes,” added the Comtesse, whilst a look of 
haughty disdain and intense bitterness shot through her 
melancholy eyes. “There was that woman, Marguerite 
St Just, for instance. She denounced the Marquis de 
St Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the 
Terror.” 

“Marguerite St Just ?” said Lord Antony, as he shot 
a quick and apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew. 
“ Marguerite St Just ? — Surely . . .” 

“Yes !” replied the Comtesse, “surely you know her. 
She was a leading actress of the Com^die Frangaise, and 
she married an Englishman lately. You must know 
her—” 

“ Know her ? ” said Lord Antony. “ Know Lady 
Blakeney — the most fashionable woman in London — 
the wife of the richest man in England ? Of course, we 
all know Lady Blakeney.” 

“She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in 
Paris,” interposed Suzanne, “and we came over to 
England together to learn your language. I was very 
fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever 
did anything so wicked.” 

“ It certainly seems incredible,” said Sir Andrew. 
“You say that she actually denounced the Marquis de St 
Cyr ? Wfcfy should she have done such a thing ? Surely 
there must be some mistake — ” 

“No mistake is possible, Monsieur," rejoined the 


40 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


Comtesse, coldly. “Marguerite St Just’s brother is a 
noted republican. There was some talk of a family feud 
between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St Cyr. 
The St Justs’ are quite plebeian, and the republican 
government employs many spies. I assure you there is 
no mistake. . . . You had not heard this story ?” 

“ Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, 
but in England no one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy 
Blakeney, her husband, is a very wealthy man, of high 
social position, the intimate friend of the Prince of 
Wales ... and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and 
society in London.” 

“ That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead 
a very quiet life in England, but I pray God that while 
I remain in this beautiful country, I may never meet 
Marguerite St Just.” 

The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over 
the merry little company gathered round the table. 
Suzanne looked sad and silent ; Sir Andrew fidgeted 
uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased in 
the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid 
and unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for 
Lord Antony, he looked extremely uncomfortable, and 
glanced once or twice apprehensively towards Jelly band, 
who looked just as uncomfortable as himself. 

“At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady 
Blakeney?” he contrived to whisper unobserved, to 
mine host. 

“Any moment, my lord,” whispered Jellyband in 
reply. 

Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an 
approaching coach : louder and louder it grew, one or 
two shouts became distinguishable, then the rattle of 
horses’ hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and the next 


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 41 

moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room 
door and rushed in excitedly. 

“ Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady,” he shouted at 
the top of his voice, “they’re just arriving.” 

And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron 
hoofs upon the stones, a magnificent coach, drawn by 
four superb bays, had halted outside the porch of “ The 
Fisherman’s Rest.” 


CHAPTER V 


MARGUERITE 

In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room cf 
the inn became the scene of hopeless confusion and 
discomfort. At the first announcement made by the 
stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had 
jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and 
confused directions to poor bewildered Jellyband, who 
seemed at his wits’ end what to do. 

“ For goodness’ sake, man,” admonished his lordship, 
“try to keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a 
moment, while the ladies withdraw. Zounds ! ” he added, 
witn another more emphatic oath, “this is most 
unfortunate.” 

“Quick, Sally! the candles!” shouted Jellyband, as 
hopping about from one leg to another, he ran hither 
and thither, adding to the general discomfort of every- 
body. 

The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet : rigid and 
erect, trying to hide her excitement beneath more becom- 
ing sang-froid , she repeated mechanically, — 

“ I will not sec her ! — I will not see her ! ” 

Outside, the CACitement attendant upon the arrival of 
very important guests grew apace. 

“ Good-day, Sir Percy ! — Good-day to your ladyship ! 
Your servant, Sir Percy ! ” — was heard in one long, 
continued chorus, with alternate more feeble tones of— 

42 


MARGUERITE 


43 

“ Remember the poor blind man ! of your charity, lady 
and gentleman ! ” 

Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard 
through all the din. 

“ Let the poor man be — and give him some supper at 
my expense.” 

The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song 
in it, and a faint soup(on of foreign intonation in tht 
pronunciation of the consonants. 

Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused 
instinctively listening to it for a moment. Sally was 
holding the candles by the opposite door, which led to 
the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was in the act 
of beating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned 
such a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly was 
preparing to follow her mother, whilst casting regretful 
glances towards the door, where she hoped still to see 
her dearly-beloved, erstwhile school fellow. 

Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and 
blindly hoping to avert the catastrophe, which he felt was 
in the air, and the same low, musical voice said, with a 
merry laugh and mock consternation, — 

“B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring 1 $ Dieu ! has 
anyone ever seen such a contemptible climate ? ” 

“ Suzanne, come with me at once — I wish it,” said the 
Comtesse, peremptorily. 

“ Oh ! Mama ! ” pleaded Suzanne. 

“ My lady . . . er . . . h’m ! ... my lady ! . . . n 
came in feeble accents from Jellyband, who stood 
clumsily trying to bar the way. 

“ Pardieu, my good man,” said Lady Blakeney, with 
some impatience, “ what are you standing in my way for, 
dancing about like a turkey with a sore foot ? Let me 
get to the fire, I am perished with the cold.’' 


44 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


And the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing 
mine host on one side, had swept into the coffee-room. 

There are many portraits and miniatures extant of 
Marguerite St Just — Lady Blakeney as she was then — 
but it is doubtful if any of these really do her singular 
beauty justice. Tall, above the average, with magnificent 
presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that evqn 
the Comtesse paused for a moment in involuntary 
admiration before turning her back on so fascinating an 
apparition. 

Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty, 
and her beauty was at its most dazzling stage. The 
large hat, with its undulating and waving plumes, threw a 
soft shadow across the classic brow with the aureole of 
auburn hair — free at the moment from any powder ; the 
sweet, almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, 
round chin, and delicate throat, all seemed set off by the 
picturesque costume of the period. The rich blue velvet 
robe moulded in its every line the graceful contour of 
the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a dignity all 
its own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of 
ribbons which fashionable ladies of the period had 
taken to carrying recently. 

With a quick glance all round the room, Marguerite 
Blakeney had taken stock of every one there. She 
nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whilst 
extending a hand to Lord Antony. 

“Hello! my Lord Tony, why — what are you doing 
here in Dover?” she said merrily. 

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced 
the Comtesse and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up 
with additional brightness, as she stretched out both 
arms towards the young girl. 

“Why! if that isn’t my little Suzanne over there 


MARGUERITE 


45 

Pardteu , little citizeness, how came you to be in 
England ? And Madame too ! ” 

She went up effusively to them both, with not a single 
touch of embarrassment in her manner or in her smile. 
Lord Tony and Sir Andrew watched the little scene with 
eager apprehension. English though they were, they 
had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with 
the French, to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter 
hatred with which the old noblesse of France viewed all 
those who had helped to contribute to their downfall 
Armand St Just, the brother of beautiful Lady Blakeney 
— though known to hold moderate and conciliatory 
views — was an ardent republican : his feud with the 
ancient family of St Cyr — the rights and wrongs of 
which no outsider ever knew — had culminated in the 
downfall, the almost total extinction, of the latter. In 
France, St Just and his party had triumphed, and here in 
England, face to face with these three refugees driven 
from their country, flying for their lives, bereft of all 
which centuries of luxury had given them, there stood a 
fair scion of those same republican families which had 
hurled down a throne, and uprooted an aristocracy 
whose origin was lost in the dim and distant vista of by- 
gone centuries. 

She stood there before them, in all the unconscious 
insolence of beauty, and stretched out her dainty hand 
to them, as if she would, by that one act, bridge over the 
conflict and bloodshed of the past decade. 

“Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,” said 
the Comtesse, sternly, as she placed a restraining hand 
upon her daughter’s arm. 

She had spoken in English, so that all might hear and 
understand ; the two young English gentlemen as well 
as the common innkeeper and his daughter. The latter 


46 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

literally gasped with horror at this foreign insolence, this 
impudence before her ladyship — who was English, now 
that she was Sir Percy’s wife, and a friend of the 
Princess of Wales to boot. 

As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their 
very hearts seemed to stand still with horror' at this 
gratuitous insult. One of them uttered an exclamation 
of appeal, the other one of warning, and instinctively 
both glanced hurriedly towards the door, whence a slow, 
drawly, not unpleasant voice had already been heard. 

Alone among those present Marguerite Blakeney and 
the Comtesse de Tournay had remained seemingly 
unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect and defiant, with one 
hand still upon her daughter’s arm, seemed the very 
personification of unbending pride. For the moment 
Marguerite’s sweet face had become as white as the soft 
fichu which swathed her throat, and a very keen observer 
might have noted that the hand which held the tall, be- 
ribboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat. 

But this was only momentary ; the next instant the 
delicate eyebrows were raised slightly, the lips curved 
sarcastically upwards, the clear blue eyes looked straight 
at the rigid Comtesse, and with a slight shrug of the 
shoulders — 

“Hoity-toity, citizeness,” she said gaily, “what fly 
stings you, pray ? ” 

“We are in England now, Madame,” rejoined the 
Comtesse, coldly, “and I am at liberty to forbid my 
daughter to touch your hand in friendship. Come, 
Suzanne.” 

She beckoned to her daughter, and without another 
look at Marguerite Blakeney, but with a deep, old- 
fashioned curtsey to the two young men, she sailed 
majestically out of the room. 


MARGUERITE 


47 


There was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment, 
as the rustle of the Comtesse’s skirts died away down the 
passage. Marguerite, rigid as a statue, followed with 
hard, set eyes the upright figure, as it disappeared 
through the doorway — but as little Suzanne, humble and 
obedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set 
expression suddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost 
pathetic and childlike look stole into Lady Blakeney’s 
eyes. 

Little Suzanne caught that look ; the child’s sweet 
nature went out to the beautiful woman, scarce older 
than herself; filial obedience vanished before girlish 
sympathy ; at the door she turned, ran back to 
Marguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her 
effusively ; then only did she follow her mother, Sally 
bringing up the rear, with a pleasant smile on her 
dimpled face, and with a final curtsey to my lady. 

Suzanne’s sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the 
unpleasant tension. Sir Andrew’s eyes followed the 
pretty little figure, until it had quite disappeared, then 
they met Lady Blakeney’s with unassumed merriment. 

Marguerite, with dainty affectation, had kissed her 
hand to the ladies, as they disappeared through the door, 
then a humorous smile began hoveriug round the 
corners of her mouth. 

“ So that’s it, is it ? ” she said gaily. “ La ! Sir Andrew, 
did you ever see such an unpleasant person ? I hope 
when I grow old I stia’n’t look like that.” 

She gathered up her skirts, and assuming a majestic 
gait, stalked towards the fireplace. 

“ Suzanne,” she said, mimicking the Comtesse’s voice, 
** I forbid you to speak to that woman 1 ” 

The laugh, which accompanied this sally, sounded 
perhaps a trifle forced and hard, but neither Sir Andrew 


48 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

nor Lord Tony were very keen observers. The mimicry 
was so perfect, the tone of the voice so accurately 
reproduced, that both the young men joined in a hearty 
cheerful “ Bravo ! ” 

“Ah! Lady Blakeney!” added Lord Tony, “how 
they must miss you at the Com^die Frangaise, and how 
the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for having taken you 
away.” 

“ Lud, man,” rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her 
graceful shoulders, “ ’tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for 
anything ; his witty sallies would disarm even Mada^p 
la Comtesse herself.” 

The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow 
his mother in her dignified exit, now made a step forward, 
ready to champion the Comtesse should Lady Blakeney 
aim any further shafts at her. But before he could utter 
a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant, though 
distinctly inane laugh, was heard from outside, and the 
next moment an unusually tall and very richly dressed 
figure appeared in the doorway. 


CHAPTER VI 

AN EXQUISITE OF ’92 

Sir Percy Blakeney, as the chronicles of the time 
inform us, was in this year of grace 1792, still a year or 
two on the right side of thirty. Tall, above the average, 
even for an Englishman, broad-shouldered and massively 
built, he would have been called unusually good-looking, 
but for a certain lazy expression in his deep-set blue eyes, 
and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure 
his strong, clearly-cut mouth. 

It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney, 
Bart., one of the richest men in England, leader of all 
the fashions, and intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, 
had astonished fashionable society in London and 
Bath, by bringing home, from one of his journeys abroad, 
a beautiful, fascinating, clever, French wife. He, the 
sleepiest, dullest, most British Britisher that had ever 
set a pretty woman yawning, had secured a brilliant 
matrimonial prize for which, as all chroniclers aver, there 
had been many competitors. 

Marguerite St Just had first made her dtbut in artistic 
Parisian circles, at the very moment when the greatest 
social upheaval the world has ever known was taking 
place within its very walls. Scarcely eighteen, lavishly 
gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only by a 
young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round 
her in her charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, 
© if 


50 


HE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


% coterie which was as brilliant as it was exclusive 
— exclusive, that is to say, only from one point of view, 
Marguerite St Just was from principle and by conviction 
a republican — equality of birth was her motto — inequality 
of fortune was in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but 
the only inequality she admitted was that of talent. 
“ Money and titles may be hereditary,” she would say, 
“but brains are not,” and thus her charming salon was 
reserved for originality and intellect, for brilliance and 
wit, for clever men and talented women, and the entrance 
into it was soon looked upon in the world of intellect — 
which even in those days and in those troublous times 
found its pivot in Paris — as the seal to an artistic career. 

Clever men, distinguished men, and even men of 
exalted station formed a perpetual and brilliant court 
round the fascinating young actress of the Com£die 
Fran£aise, and she glided through republican, revolu- 
tionary, bloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a 
trail behind her of all that was most distinguished, most 
interesting, in intellectual Europe. 

Then the climax came. Some smiled indulgently and 
called it an artistic eccentricity, others looked upon it as 
a wise provision, in view of the many events which were 
crowding thick and fast in Paris just then, but to all, the 
real motive of that climax remained a puzzle and a 
mystery. Anyway, Marguerite St Just married Sir Percy 
Blakeney one fine day, just like that, without any 
warning to her friends, without a soiree de control , or 
diner de fianfailles or other appurtenances of a fashion- 
able French wedding. 

How that stupid, dull Englishman ever came to be 
admitted within the intellectual circle which revolved 
round “ the cleverest woman in Europe,” as her friends 
unanimously called her, no one ventured to guess — 


AN EXQUISITE OF ’92 51 

golden key is said to open every door, asserted the more 
malignantly inclined. 

Enough, she married him, and the cleverest woman 
in Europe ” had linked her fate to that “ demmed idiot ,f 
Blakeney, and not even her most intimate friends could 
assign to this strange step any other motive than that of 
supreme eccentricity. Those friends who knew, laughed 
to scorn the idea that Marguerite St Just had married a 
fool for the sake of the worldly advantages with which 
he might endow her. They knew, as a matter of fact, 
that Marguerite St Just cared nothing about money, and 
still less about a title ; moreover, there were at least half 
a dozen other men in the cosmopolitan world equally 
well-born, if not so wealthy as Blakeney, who would 
have been only too happy to give Marguerite St Just any 
position she might choose to covet. 

As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to 
be totally unqualified for the onerous post he had taken 
upon himself. His chief qualifications for it seemed to 
consist in his blind adoration for her, his great wealth, 
and the high favour in which he stood at the English 
court; but London society thought that, taking into 
consideration his own intellectual limitations, it would 
have been wiser on his part, had he bestowed those 
worldly advantages upon a less brilliant and witty wife. 

Although lately he had been so prominent a figure in 
fashionable English society, he had spent most of his 
early life abroad. His father, the late Sir Algernon 
Blakeney, had had the terrible misfortune of seeing an 
idolized young wife become hopelessly insane after two 
years of happy married life. Percy had just been born 
when the late Lady Blakeney fell a prey to the terrible 
malady which in those days was looked upon as hope- 
lessly incurable and nothing short of a curse of God 


52 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


« |>on the entire family. Sir Algernon took bis afflicted 
oung wife abroad, and there presumably Percy was 
educated, and grew up between an imbecile mother and 
a distracted father, until he attained his majority. The 
death of his parents following close upon one another 
left him a free man, and as Sir Algernon had led a 
forcibly simple and retired life, the large Blakeney 
fortune had increased tenfold. 

Sir Percy Blakeney had travelled a great deal abroad, 
before he brought home his beautiful, young, French wife. 
The fashionable circles of the time were ready to receive 
them both with open arms. Sir Percy was rich, his wife 
was accomplished, the Prince of Wales took a very great 
liking to them both. Within six months they were the 
acknowledged leaders of fashion and of style. Sir Percy’s 
coats were the talk of the town, his inanities were quoted, 
his foolish laugh copied by the gilded youth at Almack’s 
or the Mall. Everyone knew that he was hopelessly 
stupid, but then that was scarcely to be wondered at, 
seeing that all the Blakeneys, for generations, had been ' 
notoriously dull, and that his mother had died an 
imbecile. 

Thus society accepted him, petted him, made much of 
him, since his horses were the finest in the country, his 
fetes and wines the most sought after. As for his 
marriage with “the cleverest woman in Europe,” well! 
the inevitable came with sure and rapid footsteps. No 
one pitied him, since his fate was of his own making. 
There were plenty of young ladies in England, of high 
birth and good looks, who would have been quite willing * 
to help him to spend the Blakeney fortune, whilst 
smiling indulgently at his inanities and his good- 
humoured foolishness. Moreover, Sir Percy got no pity, 
because he seemed to require none — he seemed very 


53 


AN EXQUISITE OF '92 

proud of his clever wife, and to care little that she took 
no pains to disguise that good-natured contempt whicl? 
she evidently felt for him, and that she even amused 
herself by sharpening her ready wits at his expense. 

But then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the 
ridicule with which his clever wife covered him, and if 
his matrimonial relations with the fascinating Parisienne 
had not turned out all that his hopes and his dog-like 
devotion for her had pictured, society could never do 
more than vaguely guess at it. 

In his beautiful house at Richmond he played second 
fiddle to his clever wife with imperturbable bonhomie ; he 
lavished jewels and luxuries of all kinds upon her, which 
she took with inimitable grace, dispensing the hospitality 
of his superb mansion with the same graciousness with 
which she had welcomed the intellectual coierie of Paris. 

Physically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably hand- 
some — always excepting the lazy, bored look which was 
habitual to him. He was always irreproachably dressed, 
and wore the exaggerated “ Incroyable” fashions, which 
had just crept across from Paris to England, with the 
perfect good taste innate in an English gentleman. On 
this special afternoon in September, in spite of the long 
journey by coach, in spite of rain and mud, his coat set 
irreproachably across his fine shoulders, his hands looked 
almost femininely white, as they emerged through billowy 
frills of finest Mechlin lace : the extravagantly short- 
waisted satin coat, wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight- 
fitting striped breeches, set off his massive figure to 
perfection, and in repose one might have admired so 
fine a specimen of English manhood, until the foppish 
ways, the affected movements, the perpetual inane laugh, 
brought one’s admiration of Sir Percy Blakeney to an 
abrupt close. 


54 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


He had lolled into the old-fashioned inn parlour, 
shaking the wet off his fine overcoat ; then putting op 
a gold-rimmed eye-glass to his lazy blue eye, he sur- 
veyed the company, upon whom an embarrassed silence 
had suddenly fallen. 

“ How do, Tony? How do, Ffoulkes?” he said, re- 
cognizing the two young men and shaking them by the 
hand. “ Zounds, my dear fellow,” he added, smothering 
a slight yawn, “ did you ever see such a beastly day ? 
Demmed climate this.” 

With a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and 
half of sarcasm, Marguerite had turned towards her hus- 
band, and was surveying him from head to foot, with an 
amused little twinkle in her merry Diue eyes. 

“ La ! ” said Sir Percy, after a moment or two’s silence, 
as no one offered any comment, “ how sheepish you all 
look. . . . What’s up ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing, Sir Percy,” replied Marguerite, with a 
certain amount of gaiety, which, however, sounded some- 
what forced, “ nothing to disturb your equanimity — only 
an insult to your wife.” 

The laugh which accompanied this remark was evi- 
dently intended to reassure Sir Percy as to the gravity 
of the incident. It apparently succeeded in that, for, 
echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly — 

“ La, m’dcar ! you c^n’t say so. Begad ! who was 
the bold man who dared to tackle you — eh?” 

Lord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to 
do so, for the young Vicomte had already quickly stepped 
forward. 

“Monsieur,” he said, prefixing his little speech with 
an elaborate bow, and speaking in broken English, “ my 
mother, the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, has 
offenced Madame, who, I see, is your wife. I cannot 


55 


AN EXQUISITE OF ’92 

ask your pardon for my mother ; what she does is light 
in my eyes. But I am ready to offer you the usual 
reparation between men of honour.” 

The young man drew up his slim stature to its full 
height and looked very enthusiastic, very proud, and 
very hot as he gazed at six foot odd of gorgeousness, as 
represented by Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. 

“ Lud, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite, with one of hei 
merry infectious laughs, “ look on that pretty picture — 
the English turkey and the French bantam.” 

The simile was quite perfect, and the English turkey 
looked down with complete bewilderment upon the dainty 
little French bantam, which hovered quite threateningly 
around him. 

“ La ! sir,” said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eye- 
glass and surveying the young Frenchman with undis- 
guised wonderment, “ where, in the cuckoo’s name, did 
you learn to speak English ? ” 

“ Monsieur 1 ” protested the Vicomte, somewhat 
abashed at the way his warlike attitude had been 
taken by the ponderous-looking Englishman. 

“ I protest ’tis marvellous !” continued Sir Percy, im- 
perturbably, “ demmed marvellous ! Don’t you think 
so, Tony — eh ? I vow I can’t speak the French lingo 
like that. What ? ” 

“Nay, I’ll vouch for that!” rejoined Marguerite. 
“ Sir Percy has a British accent you could cut with a 
knife.” 

“ Monsieur,” interposed the Vicomte earnestly, and in 
still more broken English, “ I fear you have not under- 
stand. I offer you the only posseeble reparation among 
gentlemen.” 

“ What the devil is that ? ” asked Sir Percy, blandly. 

“My sword, Monsieur,” replied the Vicomte, who. 


$6 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

though still bewildered, was beginning to lose his 
temper. 

“ You are a sportsman, Lord Tony,” said Marguerite, 
merrily ; “ ten to one on the little bantam.” 

But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a 
moment or two, through his partly closed heavy lids, then 
he smothered another yawn, stretched his long limbs, 
and turned leisurely away. 

“Lud love you, sir,” he muttered good-humouredly. 
“ Demmit, young man, what’s the good of your sword 
to me ? ” 

What the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment, 
when that long-limbed Englishman treated him with 
such marked insolence, might fill volumes of sound re- 
flections. . . . What he said resolved itself into a single 
articulate word, for all the others were choked in his 
throat by his surging wrath — 

“A duel, Monsieur,” he stammered. 

Once more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude 
looked down on the choleric little man before him ; but 
not even for a second did he seem to lose his own im- 
perturbable good-humour. He laughed his own pleasant 
and inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into 
the capacious pockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely — 

“ A duel ? La ! is that what he meant ? Odd’s fish ! 
you are a bloodthirsty young ruffian. Do you want to 
make a hole in a law-abiding man ? ... As for me, 
sir, I never fight duels,” he added, as he placidly sat 
down and stretched his long, lazy legs out before 
him. “ Demmed uncomfortable things, duels, ain’t they, 
Tony?” 

Now the Vicomte had no doubt vaguely heard that in 
England the fashion of duelling amongst gentlemen had 
been suppressed by the law with a very stern hand ; still 


AN EXQUISITE OF ’92 57 

to him, a Frenchman, whose notions of bravery and 
honour were based upon a code that had centuries of 
tradition to back it, the spectacle of a gentleman actually 
refusing to fight a duel was little short of an enormity. 
In his mind he vaguely pondered whether he should 
strike that long-legged Englishman in the face and call 
him a coward, or whether such conduct in a lady’s 
presence might be deemed ungentlemanly, when Mar- 
guerite happily interposed. 

** I pray you, Lord Tony," she said in that gentle, 
sweet, musical voice of hers, ** I pray you play the peace- 
maker. The child is bursting with rage, and,” she added 
with a soup f on of dry sarcasm, “ might do Sir Percy an 
injury.” She laughed a mocking little laugh, which, 
however, did not in the least disturb her husband’s 
placid equanimity. “The British turkey has had the 
iay,” she said. “ Sir Percy would provoke all the saints 
in the calendar and keep his temper the while.” 

But already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had 
joined in the laugh against himself. 

“ Demmed smart that now, wasn’t it ? ” he said, turn- 
ing pleasantly to the Vicomte. “ Clever woman my wife, 
sir. . . . You will find that out if you live long enough 
in England.” 

“ Sir Percy is in the right, Vicomte,” here interposed 
Lord Antony, laying a friendly hand on the young 
Frenchman’s shoulder. “ It would hardly be fitting that 
you should commence your career in England by pro- 
voking him to a duel.” 

For a moment longer the Vicomte hesitated, then 
with a slight shrug of the shoulders directed against the 
extraordinary code of honour prevailing in this fog' 
sidden island, he said with becoming dignity, — 

14 Ah, well 1 if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs. 


58 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

You, mi’lor’, are our protector. If I have done wrong, 
I withdraw myself.” 

“ Aye, do 1 ” rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of 
satisfaction, “withdraw yourself over there. Demmed 
excitable little puppy,” he added under his breath, 
“ Faith, Ffoulkes, if that’s a specimen of the goods you 
and your friends bring over from France, my advice to 
you is, drop ’em ’mid Channel, my friend, or I shall have 
to see old Pitt about it, get him to clap on a prohibitive 
tariff, and put you in the stocks an you smuggle.” 

“La, Sir Percy, your chivalry misguides you,” said 
Marguerite, coquettishly, “ you forget that you yourself 
have imported one bundle of goods from France.” 

Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep 
and elaborate bow before his wife, he said with consum- 
mate gallantry, — 

“ I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my taste 
is unerring.” 

“ More so than your chivalry, I fear,” she retorted 
sarcastically. 

“ Odd’s life, m’dear ! be reasonable ! Do you think I 
am going to allow my body to be made a pincushion of, 
by every little frog-eater who don’t like the shape of 
your nose ? ” 

“Lud, Sir Percy!” laughed Lady Blakeney as she 
bobbed him a quaint and pretty curtsey, “you need not 
be afraid ! ’Tis not the men who dislike the shape of 
my nose.” 

“ Afraid be demmed ! Do you impugn my bravery, 
Madame ? I don’t patronise the ring for nothing, do I 
Tony ? I’ve put up the fists with Red Sam before now, 
and — and he didn’t get it all his own way either — ” 

“ S’faith, Sir Percy,” said Marguerite, with a long and 
merry laugh, that went echoing along the old oak rafters 


59 


AN EXQUISITE OF ’92 

of the parlour, “ I would I had seen you then ... ha 1 
ha ! ha ! ha ! — you must have looked a pretty picture 
. . . and . . . and to be afraid of a little French boy 
. . . ha ! ha ! . . . ha ! ha ! ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! he ! he ! he ! ’’ echoed Sir Percy, good- 
humouredly. “ La, Madame, you honour me ! Zooks ! 
Ffoulkes, mark ye that ! I have made my wife laugh ! 
— The cleverest woman in Europe ! . . . Odd’s fish, we 
must have a bowl on that ! ” and he tapped vigorously 
on the table near him. “ Hey ! Jelly 1 Quick, man ! 
Here, Jelly!” 

Harmony was once more restored. Mr Jelly band, 
with a mighty effort, recovered himself from the many 
emotions he had experienced within the last half hour. 

“ A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot and strong, eh ? ” said 
Sir Percy. “The wits that have just made a clever 
woman laugh must be whetted ! Ha I ha ! ha ! Hasten, 
my good Jelly ! ” 

“Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy,” interposed Mar- 
guerite. “The skipper will be here directly and my 
brother must get on board, or the Day Dream will miss 
the tide.” 

“Time, m’dear? There is plenty of time for any 
gentleman to get drunk and get on board before the 
turn of the tide.” 

“ I think, your ladyship,” said Jellyband, respectfully, 
“that the young gentleman is coming along now with 
Sir Percy’s skipper.” 

“That’s right,” said Blakeney, “then Armand can 
join us in the merry bowl. Think you, Tony,” he 
added, turning towards the Vicomte, “ that that jacka- 
napes of yours will join us in a glass? Tell him that we 
drink in token of reconciliation.” 

“ In fact you are all such merry company,” said Mar- 


60 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

guerite, “that I trust you will forgive me if I bid my 
brother good-bye in another room.” 

It would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord 
Antony and Sir Andrew felt that Lady Blakeney could 
not altogether be in tune with them at that moment. 
Her love for her brother, Armand St Just, was deep and 
touching in the extreme. He had just spent a few 
weeks with her in her English home, and was going 
back to serve his country, at a moment when death was 
the usual reward for the most enduring devotion. 

Sir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife. 
With that perfect, somewhat affected gallantry which 
characterised his every movement, he opened the coffee- 
room door for her, and made her the most approved and 
elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, 
as she sailed out of the room without bestowing on him 
more than a passing, slightly contemptuous glance. 
Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought since he 
had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more 
gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the curious look 
of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion, with 
which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the 
retreating figure of his brilliant wife. 



4f$ 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SECRET ORCHARD 

Once outside the noisy coffee-room, alone in the dimly- 
hghted passage, Marguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe 
more freely. She heaved a deep sigh, like one who had 
long been oppressed with the heavy weight of constant 
self-control, and she allowed a few tears to fall unheeded 
down her cheeks. 

Outside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly 
passing clouds, the pale rays of an after-storm sun shone 
upon the beautiful white coast of Kent and the quaint, 
irregular houses that clustered round the Admiralty 
Pier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped on to the porch 
and looked out to sea. Silhouetted against the ever- 
changing sky, a graceful schooner, with white sails set, 
was gently dancing in the breeze. The Day Dream it 
was, Sir Percy Blakeney’s yacht, which was ready to take 
Armand St Just back to France into the very midst of 
that seething, bloody Revolution which was overthrowing 
a monarchy, attacking a religion, destroying a society, 
in order to try and rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a 
new Utopia, of which a few men dreamed, but which 
none had the power to establish. 

In the distance two figures were approaching “The 
Fisherman’s Rest ” : one, an oldish man, with a curious 
fringe of grey hairs round a rotund and massive chin, and 
who walked with that peculiar rolling gait which invari- 
ably betrays the seafaring man : the other, a young, slight 


62 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


figure, neatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many 
caped overcoat ; he was clean-shaved, and his dark hair 
was taken well back over a clear and noble forehead. 

** Armand ! ” said Marguerite Blakeney, as soon as 
she saw him approaching from the distance, and a happy 
smile shone on her sweet face, even through the tears. 

A minute or two later brother and sister were locked 
in each other’s arms, while the old skipper stood respect' 
fully on one side. 

“ How much time have we got, Briggs ? ” asked Lady 
Blakeney, “ before M. St Just need go on board ? ” 

“ We ought to weigh anchor before half an hour, 
your ladyship,” replied the old man, pulling at his grey 
forelock. 

Linking her arm in his, Marguerite led her brother 
towards the cliffs. 

“ Half an hour,” she said, looking wistfully out to sea, 
“ half an hour more and you’ll be far from me, Armand ! 
Oh ! I can’t believe that you are going, dear ! These 
last few days — whilst Percy has been away, and I’ve had 
you all to myself, have slipped by like a dream.” 

“ I am not going far, sweet one,” said the young man 
gently, “ a narrow channel to cross — a few miles of road 
— I can soon come back.” 

“ Nay, ’tis not the distance, Armand — but that awful 
Paris . . . just now . . .” 

They had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle 
sea-breeze blew Marguerite’s hair about her face, and 
sent the ends of her soft lace fichu waving round her, 
like a white and supple snake. She tried to pierce the 
distance far away, beyond which lay the shores of 
France : that relentless and stern France which was 
exacting her pound of flesh, the blood-tax from the 
noblest of her sons. 


THE SECRET ORCHARD 


63 

** Our own beautiful country, Marguerite,” said 
Armand, who seemed to have divined her thoughts. 

“ They are going too far, Armand,” she said 
vehemently. “You are a republican, so am I ... we 
have the same thoughts, the same enthusiasm for liberty 
and equality . . . but evenly*?* must think that they are 
going too far . . 

“ Hush ! — ” said Armand, instinctively, as he threw a 
quick, apprehensive glance around him. 

“ Ah ! you see : you don’t think yourself that it is 
safe even to speak of these things — here in England ! n 
She clung to him suddenly with strong, almost motherly, 
passion : “ Don’t go, Armand 1 ” she begged ; “ don’t 
go back ! What should I do if ... if ... if . .” 

Her voice was choked in sobs, her eyes, tender, blue 
and loving, gazed appealingly at the young man, who in 
his turn looked steadfastly into " srs. 

“You would in any case be my own brave sister/’ he 
said gently, “ who would remember that, when France 
is in peril, it is not for her sons to turn their backs on 
her.” 

Even as he spoke, that sweet, childlike smile crept back 
into her face, pathetic in the extreme, for it seemed 
drowned in tears. 

“ Oh 1 Armand I ” she said quaintly, “ I sometimes 
wish you had not so many lofty virtues. ... I assure 
you little sins are far less dangerous and uncom- 
fortable. But you wi 'll be prudent?” she added 
earnestly. 

“ As far as possible ... I promise you.* 

“ Remember, dear, I have only you ... to ... to 
care for me. ...” 

“Nay, sweet one, you have other interests no*, 
Percy cares for you. . . /' 


64 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

A look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes &i 
she murmured, — 

“ He did . . . once . . * 

“ But surely . . 

“There, there, dear, don't distress yourself on my 
account. Percy is very good . . . M 

“ Nay 1 ” he interrupted energetically, “ I will distress 
myself on your account, my Margot. Listen, dear, I 
have not spoken of these things to you before ; some- 
thing always seemed to stop me when I wished to 
question you. But, somehow, I feel as if I could not go 
away and leave you now without asking you one ques- 
tion. . . . You need not answer it if you do not wish,” 
he added, as he noted a sudden hard look, almost of 
apprehension, darting through her eyes. 

“ What is it ? ” she asked simply. 

“ Does Sir Percy Buxeney know that ... I mean, 
does he know the part you played in the arrest of the 
Marquis de St Cyr ? ” 

She laughed — a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous 
laugh, which was like a jarring chord in the music of 
her voice. 

“ That I denounced the Marquis de St Cyr, you mean, 
to the tribunal that ultimately sent him and all his 
family to the guillotine ? Yes, he does know. . , . 1 

told him after I married him. . . .” 

“ You told him all the circumstances — which sc com- 
pletely exonerated you from any blame ? ” 

“ It was too late to talk of ‘ circumstances * ; he 
heard the story from, other sources ; my confession 
came too^tardily, it seems. I could no longer plead 
extenuating circumstance# : I could not bemcan myself 
by trying to explain—" 

“And?" 


THE SECRET ORCHARD 


65 

41 And now I have the satisfaction, Armand, of know- 
ing that the biggest fool in England has the most com- 
plete contempt for his wife.” 

She spoke with vehement bitterness this time, and 
Armand St Just, who loved her so dearly, felt that he had 
placed a somewhat clumsy finger, upon an aching wound. 

“But Sir Percy loved you, Margot,” he repeated 
gently. 

“ Loved me ? — Well, Armand, I thought at one time 
that he did, or I should not have married him. 1 dare- 
say,” she added, speaking very rapidly, as if she were 
glad at last to lay down a heavy burden, which had 
oppressed her for months, “I daresay that even you 
thought — as everybody else did — that I married Sir 
Percy because of his wealth — but I assure you, dear, 
that it was not so. He seemed to worship me with a 
curious intensity of concentrated passion, which went 
straight to my heart. I had never loved any one before, 
as you know, and I was four-and-twenty then— so I 
naturally thought that it was not in my nature to love. 
But it has always seemed to me that it must be heavenly 
to be loved blindly, passionately, wholly . . . wor- 
shipped, in fact — and the very fact that Percy was slow 
and stupid was an attraction for me, as I thought he 
would love me all the more. A clever man would 
naturally have other interests, an ambitious man other 
hopes. ... I thought that a fool would worship, and 
think of nothing else. And I was ready to respond, 
Armand ; I would have allowed myself to be worshipped, 
and given infinite tenderness in return. ...” 

She sighed — and there was a world of disillusionment 
In that sigh. Armand St Just had allowed her to speak 
on without interruption : he listened to her, whilst 
allowing his own thoughts to run riot. It was terrible to 


66 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


see a young and beautiful woman — a girl in all but name 
— still standing almost at the threshold of her life, yet 
bereft of hope, bereft of illusions, bereft of those golden 
and fantastic dreams, which should have made her youth 
one long, perpetual holiday. 

Yet perhaps — though he loved his sister dearly — 
perhaps he understood : he had studied men in many 
countries, men of all ages, men of every grade of social 
and intellectual status, and inwardly he understood 
what Marguerite had left unsaid. Granted that Percy 
Blakeney was dull-witted, but in his slow-going mind, 
there would still be room for that ineradicable pride of 
a descendant of a long line of English gentlemen A 
Blakeney had died on Bosworth Field, anothei had 
sacrificed life and fortune for the sake of a treacherous 
Stuart : and that same pride — foolish and prejudiced as 
the republican Armand would call it — must have been 
stung to the quick on hearing of the sin which lay at 
Lady Blakeney’s door. She had been young, misguided, 
ill-advised perhaps. Armand knew that : and those who 
took advantage of Marguerite’s youth, her impulses and 
imprudence, knew it still better; but Blakeney was 
slow-witted, he would not listen to “ circumstances,” 
he only clung to facts, and these had shown him Lady 
Blakeney denouncing a fellow-man to a tribunal that 
knew no pardon : and the contempt he would feel for 
the deed she had done, however unwittingly, would kill 
that same love in him, in which sympathy and intellect- 
uality could never have had a part. 

Yet even now, his own sister puzzled him. Life and 
love have such strange vagaries. Could it be that with 
the waning of her husband’s love, Marguerite’s heart had 
awakened with love for him ? Strange extremes meet in 
love’s pathway: this woman, who had had half in- 


THE SECRET ORCHARD 67 

tellectual Europe at her feet, might perhaps have set her 
affections on a fool. Marguerite was gazing out towards 
the sunset. Armand could not see her face, but pre- 
sently it seemed to him that something which glittered 
for a moment in the golden evening light, fell from her 
eyes onto her dainty fichu of lace. 

But he could not broach that subject with her. He 
knew her strange, passionate nature so well, and knew 
that reserve which lurked behind her frank, open ways. 

They had always been together, these two, for their 
parents had died when Armand was still a youth, and 
Marguerite but a child. He, some eight years her 
senior, had watched over her until her marriage ; had 
chaperoned her during those brilliant years spent in 
the fiat of the Rue de Richelieu, and had seen her 
enter upon this new life of hers, here in England, with 
much sorrow and some foreboding. 

This was his first visit to England since her marriage, 
and the few months of separation had already seemed 
to have built up a slight, thin partition between brother 
and sister ; the same deep, intense love was still there, 
on both sides, but each now seemed to have a secret 
orchard, into which the other dared not penetrate. 

There was much Armand St Just could not tell his 
sister ; the political aspect of the revolution in France 
was changing almost every day ; she might not under- 
stand how his own views and sympathies might become 
modified, even as the excesses, committed by those who 
had been his friends, grew in horror and in intensity. 
And Marguerite could not speak to her brother about 
the secrets of her heart; she hardly understood them 
herself, she only knew that, in the midst of luxury, she 
felt lonely and unhappy. 

And now Armand was going away ; she feared for hit 


68 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


safety, she longed for his presence. She would not 
spoil these last few sadly-sweet moments, by speaking 
about herself. She led him gently along the cliffs, then 
down to the beach ; their arms linked in one another’s, 
they had still so much to say, that lay just outside that 
secret orchard of theirs. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE ACCREDITED AGllfT 

The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a 
long, chilly English summer’s evening was throwing a 
misty pall over the green Kentish landscape. 

The Day Dream had set sail, and Marguerite Blake- 
ney stood alone on the edge of the cliff for over an hour, 
watching those white sails, which bore so swiftly away 
from her the only being who really cared for her, whom 
she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust. 

Some little distance away to her left the lights from 
the coffee-room of “The Fisherman’s Rest” glittered 
yellow in the gathering mist; from time to time it 
seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from 
thence, the sound of merry-making and of jovial talk, 
or even that perpetual, senseless laugh of her husband’s, 
which grated continually upon her sensitive ears. 

Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely 
alone. She supposed that, in his own stupid, good- 
natured way, he may have understood that she would 
wish to remain alone, while those white sails disappeared 
into the vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose 
notions of propriety and decorum were supersensitive, 
had not suggested even, that an attendant should remain 
within call. Marguerite was grateful to her husband 
for all this ; she always tried to be grateful to him for 
his thoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his 
generosity, which really was boundless. She tried even 
6s 


70 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter thoughts of him, 
which made her — in spite of herself — say cruel, insulting 
things, which she vaguely hoped would wound him. 

Yes ! she often wished to wound him, to make him 
feel that she too held him in contempt, that she too had 
forgotten that once she had almost loved him. Loved 
that inane fop ! whose thoughts seemed unable to soar 
beyond the tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat. 
Bah ! And yet ! . . . vague memories, that were sweet 
and ardent and attuned to this calm summer’s evening, 
came wafted back to her memory, on the invisible wings 
of the light sea-breeze: the time when first he wor- 
shipped her; he seemed so devoted — a very slave — 
and there was a certain latent intensity in that love 
which had fascinated her. 

Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which through- 
out his courtship she had looked upon as the slavish 
fidelity of a dog, seemed to vanish completely. Twenty- 
four hours after the simple little ceremony at old Si 
Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, 
she had spoken of certain matters connected with the 
Marquis de St Cyr before some men — her friends — 
who had used this information against the unfortunate 
Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine. 

She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear 
brother, had loved Angble de St Cyr, but St Just was a 
plebeitfri, and the Marquis full of the pride and arrogant 
prejudices of his caste. One day Armand, the respect- 
ful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem — 
enthusiastic, ardent, passionate — to the idol of his 
dreams. The next night he was waylaid just outside 
Paris by the valets of the Marquis de St Cyr, and 
ignominiously thrashed — thrashed like a dog within an 
inch of his life — because he had dared to raise his eyes 


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 


7i 


to the daughter of the aristocrat. The incident was one 
which, in those days, some two years before the great 
Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France; 
incidents of that type, in fact, led to the bloody reprisals, 
which a few years later sent most of those haughty heads 
to the guillotine. 

Marguerite remembered it all : what her brother must 
have suffered in his manhood and his pride must have 
been appalling ; what she suffered through him and with 
him she never attempted even to analyse. 

Then the day of retribution came. St Cyr and his 
kind had found their masters, in those same plebeians 
whom they had despised. Armand and Marguerite, both 
intellectual, thinking beings, adopted with the enthusiasm 
of their years the Utopian doctrines of the Revolution, 
while the Marquis de St Cyr and his family fought inch 
by inch for the retention of those privileges, which had 
placed them socially above their fellow-men. Marguerite, 
impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating the purport of her 
words, still smarting under the terrible insult her brother 
had suffered at the Marquis’ hands, happened to hear — 
amongst her own coterie — that the St Cyrs were in 
treasonable correspondence with Austria, hoping to 
obtain the Emperor’s support to quell the growing 
revolution in their own country. 

In those days one denunciation was sufficient : Mar- 
guerite’s few thoughtless words, anent the Marquis de 
St Cyr, bore fruit within twenty-four hom*s. He was 
arrested. His papers were searched: letters from the 
Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the 
Paris populace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned 
for treason against the nation, and sent to the guillotine, 
whilst his family, his wife and his sons, shared this awful 
fate. 


72 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of 
her own thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the 
Marquis : her own coterie, the leaders of the revolutionary 
movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine : and when she 
married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps alto- 
gether realise how severely he would look upon the sin, 
which she had so inadvertently committed, and which 
still lay heavily upon her soul. She made full confession 
of it to her husband, trusting to his blind love for her, 
her boundless power over him, to soon make him forget 
what might have sounded unpleasant to an English ear. 

Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very 
quietly ; hardly, in fact, did he appear to understand the 
meaning of all she said ; but what was more certain still, 
was that never after that could she detect the slightest 
sign of that love, which she once believed had been 
wholly hers. Now thov had drifted quite apart, and 
Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his love for her, 
as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried to rouse him 
by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect; 
endeavoured to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse 
his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in 
vain. He remained the same, always passive, drawling, 
sleepy, always courteous, invariably a gentleman : she 
had all that the world and a wealthy husband can give 
to a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer’s even- 
ing, with the white sails of the Day Dream finally hidden 
by the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that 
poor tramp who plodded his way wearily along the rugged 
cliffs. 

With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned 
her back upon the sea and cliffs, and walked slowly back 
towards “The Fisherman’s Rest.” As she drew near, the 
sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew louder and 


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 


7 3 


more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew 
Ffoulkes’ pleasant voice, Lord Tony’s boisterous guffaws, 
her husband’s occasional, drawly, sleepy comments ; 
then realising the loneliness of the road and the fast 
gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps . . . 
the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly 
towards her. Marguerite did not look up : she was not 
the least nervous, and “The Fisherman’s Rest” was 
now well within call. 

The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming 
quickly towards him, and just as she was about to slip 
past him, he said very quietly : 

“ Citoyenne St Just.” 

Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment, at thus 
hearing her own familiar maiden name uttered so close 
to her. She looked up at the stranger, and this time, 
with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out both hei 
hands effu: towards him. 

“ Chauvelin 1 ” she exclaimed. 

“ Himself, citoyenne, at your service,” said the stranger, 
gallantly kissing the tips of her fingers. 

Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she 
surveyed with obvious delight the not very prepossessing 
little figure before her. Chauvelin was then nearer forty 
than thirty — a clever, shrewd-looking personality, with a 
curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken eyes. He 
was the same stranger who an hour or two previously 
had joined Mr Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine. 

“Chauvelin . . . my friend . . .” said Marguerite, 
with a pretty little sigh of satisfaction.' “ I am mightily 
pleased to see you.” 

No doubt poor Marguerite St Just, lonely in the midst 
of her grandeur, and of her starchy friends, was happy 
to see a face that broughj back memories of that happy 


7 4 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


time in Paris, when she reigned — a queen — over the 
intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not 
notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered 
round the thin lips of Chauvelin. 

“ But tell me,” she added merrily, “ what in the world, 
Dr whom in the world, are you doing here in England ? ” 

She had resumed her walk towards the inn, and 
Chauvelin turned and walked beside her. 

“ I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady,” he 
said. “ What of yourself? ” 

“ Oh, I ? ” she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. “ Je 
m’ennuie, mon ami, that is all.” 

They had reached the porch of “ The Fisherman’s Rest,” 
but Marguerite seemed loth to go within. The evening 
air was lovely after the storm, and she had found a friend 
who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew Armand 
well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends 
whom she had left behind. So she lingered on under 
the pretty porch, while through the gaily-lighted dormer- 
window of the coffee-room came sounds of laughter, of calls 
for “ Sally ” and for beer, of tapping of mugs, and clinking 
of dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blakeney’s inane and 
mirthless laugh. Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, 
pale, yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face, which looked so 
sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight. 

“You surprise me, citoyenne,” he said quietly, as he 
took a pinch of snuff. 

“Do I now?” she retorted gaily. “Faith, my little 
Chauvelin, I should have thought that, with your pene- 
tration, you would have guessed that an atmosphere 
composed of fogs and virtues would never suit Marguerite 
St Just.” 

“ Dear me 1 is it as bad as that ? ” he asked, in mock 
consternation. 


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 


75 


“Quite,” she retorted, “and worse.” 

“Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman 
would have found English country life peculiarly at- 
tractive.” 

“Yes! so did I,” she said with a sigh. “Pretty 
women,” she added meditatively, “ought to have a good 
time in England, since all the pleasant things are for- 
bidden them — the very things they do every day." 

“ Quite so ! ” 

“You’ll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin,” she 
said earnestly, “ but I often pass a whole day — a whole 
day — without encountering a single temptation.” 

“ No wonder,” retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, “that the 
cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ennui.” 

She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike 
laughs. 

“ It must be pretty bad, mustn’t it ? ” she said archly, 
“or I should not have been so pleased to see you.” 

“ And this within a year of a romantic love match ! . . .” 

“Yes! ... a year of a romantic love match . . . 
that’s just the difficulty ...” 

“Ah! . . . that idyllic folly,” said Chauvelin, with 
quiet sarcasm, “ did not then survive the lapse of . . . 
weeks ? ” 

“ Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin. . . . 
They come upon us like the measles . . . and are as 
easily cured.” 

Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed 
very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent 
in those days ; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff 
a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances 
with which he strove to read the very souls of those with 
whom he came in contact. 

“No wonder,” he repeated, with the same gallantry, 


76 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

“that the most active brain in Europe is troubled with 
ennui." 

“ I was in hopes that you had a prescription against 
the malady, my little Chauvelin.” 

“ How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy 
Blakeney has failed to accomplish ? ” 

“Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for 
the present, my dear friend ? ” she said drily. 

“Ah ! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what 
we cannot very well do,” said Chauvelin, whilst once 
again his eyes, keen as those of a fox on the alert, darted 
a quick glance at Marguerite. “ I have a most perfect 
prescription against the worst form of ennui. , which I 
would have been happy to submit to you, but — ” 

“ But what ? ” 

“ There is Sir Percy.” 

“What has he to do with it ? ” 

“ Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I 
would offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name : 
Work ! ” 

“Work?” 

Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinis- 
ingly. It seemed as if those keen, pale eyes of his were 
reading every one of her thoughts. They were alone 
together ; the evening air was quite still, and their soft 
whispers were drowned in the noise which came from 
the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took a step or two 
from under the porch, looked quickly and keenly all 
round him, then, seeing that indeed no one was within 
earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite. 

“Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?” 
he asked, with a sudden change of manner, which lent 
his thin, fox-like face singular earnestness. 

u La, man ! ” she replied flippantly, “ how serious you 


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 


77 

look all of a sudden. . . . Indeed ] do not know if I 
would render France a small service — at anyrate, it 
depends upon the kind of service she — or you — want.” 

“Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, 
Citoyenne St Just?” asked Chauvelin, abruptly. 

“ Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel ? ” she retorted with 
a long and merry laugh, “ Faith, man ! we talk of nothing 
else. . . . We have hats 1 k la Scarlet Pimpernel' ; our 
horses are called * Scarlet Pimpernel * ; at the Prince of 
Wales’ supper party the other night we had a ‘ souffle 
k la Scarlet Pimpernel.’ . . . Lud!” she added gaily, 
“the other day I ordered at my milliner’s a blue dress 
trimmed with green, and, bless me, if she did not call 
that ‘ k la Scarlet Pimpernel.’ ” 

Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily 
along ; he did not even attempt to stop her when her 
musical voice and her childlike laugh went echoing 
through the still evening air. But he remained serious 
and earnest, whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear, 
incisive, and hard, was not raised above his breath as 
he said, — 

“ Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical person- 
age, citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and known, 
that the man who hides his identity under that strange 
pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic, 
of France ... of men like Armand St Just.” 

“ La ! . . .” she said, with a quaint little sigh, “ I dare 
swear he is. . . . France has many bitter enemies 
these days.” 

“ But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and 
should be ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril.” 

“ My brother Armand devotes his life to France,” she 
retorted proudly ; “ as for me, I car do nothing . . . 
here in England. . . 


78 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

“ Yes, you . . he urged still more earnestly, whilst 
his thin fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown 
impressive and full of dignity, “here, in England, 
citoyenne . . . you alone can help us. . . . Listen ! — 
I have been sent over here by the Republican Govern- 
ment as its representative : I present my credentials to 
Mr Pitt in London to-morrow. One of my duties here 
is to find out all about this League of the Scarlet Pimper- 
nel, which has become a standing menace to France, 
since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats — traitors 
to their country, and enemies of the people- —to escape 
from the just punishment which they deserve. You 
know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they are over 
here, those French emigres try to rouse public feeling 
against the Republic. . . . They are ready to join issue 
with any enemy bold enough to attack France. . . . 
Now, within the last month, scores of these imigres^ 
some only suspected of treason, others actually con- 
demned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded 
in crossing the Channel. Their escape in each instance 
was planned, organised and effected by this society of 
young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose 
brain seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. 
All the most strenuous efforts on the part of my spies 
have failed to discover who he is ; whilst the others are 
the hands, he is the head, who, beneath this strange 
anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. 
I mean to strike at that head, and for this I want your 
help — through him afterwards I can reach the rest of 
the gang: he is a young buck in English society, of 
that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne 1 ” he 
urged, “ find him for France I ” 

Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin’s impassioned 
speech without uttering a word, scarce making a move- 


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 


79 


ment, hardly daring to breathe. She had told him before, 
that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of the 
smart set to which she belonged ; already, before this, 
her heart and her imagination had been stirred by the 
thought of the brave man, who, unknown to fame, had 
rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an un- 
merciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with 
those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride 
of caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive 
was so typical an example; but, republican and liberal- 
minded though she was from principle, she hated and 
loathed the methods which the young Republic had 
chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in 
Paris for some months ; the horrors and bloodshed of 
the Reign of Terror, culminating in the September mas- 
sacres, had only come across the Channel to her as a 
faint echo. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not 
known in their new guise of bloody justiciaries, merci- 
less wielders of the guillotine. Her very soul recoiled 
in horror from these excesses, to which she feared her 
brother Armand— moderate republican as he was — 
might become one day the holocaust. 

Then, when first she heard of this band of young 
English enthusiasts, who, for sheer love of their fellow- 
men, dragged women and children, old and young men, 
from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride 
for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul 
went out to the gallant and mysterious leader of the 
reckless little band, who risked his life daily, who 
gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sake 
of humanity. 

Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished 
speaking, the lace at her bosom rose and fell with her 
quick, excited breathing ; she no longer heard the noise of 


8o 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


drinking from the inn, she did not heed her husband’s 
voice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone wandering 
in search of the mysterious hero ! Ah ! there was a man 
she might have loved, had he come her way : everything 
in him appealed to her romantic imagination ; his per- 
sonality, his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of those 
who served under him in the same noble cause, and, 
above all, that anonymity which crowned him, as if with 
a halo of romantic glory. 

“ Find him for France, citoyenne ! n 

Chauvelin’s voice close to her ear roused her from her 
dreams. The mysterious hero had vanished, and, not 
twenty yards away from her, a man was drinking and 
laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty. 

44 La ! man,” she said with a return of hei assumed 
flippancy, 44 you are astonishing. Where in the world 
am I to look for him ? ” 

“You go everywhere, citoyenne,” whispered Chau- 
velin, insinuatingly, “Lady Blakeney is the pivot of 
social London, so I am told . . . you see everything, 
you hear everything.” 

“Easy, my friend,” retorted Marguerite, drawing her- 
self up to her full height and looking down, with a slight 
thought of contempt on the small, thin figure before her. 
“ Easy ! you seem to forget that there are six feet of Sir 
Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to stand 
between Lady Blakeney md such a thing as you propose.” 

“For the sake of France, citoyenne I” reiterated 
Chauvelin, earnestly. 

“ Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway ; for even if 
you did know who this Scarlet Pimpernel is, you could 
do nothing to him — an Englishman ! ” 

“ I’d take my chance of that,” said Chauvelin, with a 
dry, rasping little laugh. “At anyrate we could send 


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 


81 


him to the guillotine first to cool his ardour, then, when 
there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we caD apologise — 
humbly — to the British Government, and, if necessary, 
pay compensation to the bereaved family.” 

“What you propose is horrible. Chauvelin,” she said, 
drawing away from him as from some noisome insect. 
“Whoever the man may be. he is brave and noble, and 
never — do you hear me ? — never would I lend a hand to 
such villainy.” 

“ You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat 
who comes to this country ? ” 

Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny 
shaft. Marguerite’s fresh young cheeks became a 
thought more pale and she bit her under lip, for she 
would not let him see that the shaft had struck home. 

“That is beside the question,” she said at last with 
indifference. “ I can defend myself, but I refuse to do 
any dirty work for you — or for France. You have other 
means at your disposal ; you must use them, my friend.” 

And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite 
Blakeney turned her back on him and walked straight 
into the inn. 

“ That is not your last word, citoyenne,” said Chau* 
velin, as a flood of light from the passage illumined her 
elegant, richly-clad figure, “ we meet in London, I hope ! ” 

“ We meet in London,” she said, speaking over her 
shoulder at him, “ but that is my last word.” 

She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared 
from his view, but he remained under the porch for a 
moment or two, taking a pinch of snuff. He had re- 
ceived a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like 
face looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the 
contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly 
satisfied, played around the corners of his thin lips. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE OUTRAGE 

A beautiful starlit night had followed on the day o! 
incessant rain: a cool, balmy, late summer’s night, 
essentially English in its suggestion of moisture and 
scent of wet earth and dripping leaves. 

The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest 
thoroughbreds in England, had driven off along the 
London road, with Sir Percy Blakeney on the box, 
holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and 
beside him Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs. A 
fifty-mile drive on a starlit summer’s night 1 Marguerite 
had hailed the notion of it with delight. ... Sir Percy 
was an enthusiastic whip ; his four thoroughbreds, which 
had been sent down to Dover a couple of days before, 
were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to the 
expedition, and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of 
the few hours of solitude, with the soft night breeze 
fanning her cheeks, her thoughts wandering, whither 
away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percy 
would speak little, if at all : he had often driven her on 
his beautiful coach for hours at night, from point to 
point, without making more than one or two casual 
remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads. He 
was very fond of driving by night, and she had very 
quickly adopted his fancy : as she sat next to him hour 
after hour, admiring the dexterous, certain way in which 
he handled the reins, she often wondered what went on 
8a 


THE OUTRAGE 83 

in that slow-going head of his. He never told her, and 
she had never cared to ask. 

At “ The Fisherman’s Rest” Mr Jellyband was going 
the round, putting out the lights. His bar customers 
had all gone, but upstairs in the snug little bedrooms, 
Mr Jellyband had quite a few important guests: the 
Comtesse de Tournay, with Suzanne, and the Vicomte, 
and there were two more bedrooms ready for Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, if the 
two young men should elect to honour the ancient 
hostelry and stay the night. 

For the moment these two young gallants were com- 
fortably installed in the coffee-room, before the huge 
log-fire, which, in spite of the mildness of the evening, 
had been allowed to burn merrily. 

“ I say, Jelly, has everyone gone? ” asked Lord Tony, 
as the worthy landlord still busied himself clearing away 
glasses and mugs. 

“ Everyone, as you see, my lord.” 

“ And all your servants gone to bed ? ” 

“ All except the boy on duty in the bar, and,” added 
Mr Jellyband with a laugh, “I expect he’ll be asleep 
afore long, the rascal.” 

“Then we can talk here undisturbed for half an 
hour ? ” 

“ At your service, my lord. ... I’ll leave your candles 
on the dresser . . . and your rooms are quite ready . . . 
I sleep at the top of the house myself, but if your lord- 
ship’ll only call loudly enough, I daresay I shall hear.” 

“All right, Jelly . . . and ... I say, put the lamp 
out — the fire’ll give us all the light we need — and we 
don’t want to attract the passer-by.” 

“ All ri’, my lord.” 

Mr Jellyband did as he was bid — he turned out the 


84 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

quaint old lamp that hung from the raftered ceiling and 
blew out all the candles. 

“Let’s have a bottle of wine, Jelly,” suggested Sir 
Andrew. 

“ All ri’, sir ! ” 

Jellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room 
now was quite dark, save for the circle of ruddy and fitful 
light formed by the brightly blazing logs in the hearth. 

“Is that all, gentlemen?” asked Jellyband, as he 
returned with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, 
which he placed on the table. 

“That’ll do nicely, thanks, Jelly ! ” said Lord Tony. 

“ Good-night, my lord ! Good-night, sir ! ” 

“ Good-night, Jelly ! ” 

The two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread 
of Mr Jellyband was heard echoing along the passage 
and staircase. Presently even that sound died out, 
and the whole of “The Fisherman’s Rest” seemed 
wrapt in sleep, save the two young men drinking in 
silence beside the hearth. 

For a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee- 
room, save the ticking of the old grandfather’s clock 
and the crackling of the burning wood. 

“All right again this time, Ffoulkes?” asked Lord 
Antony at last. 

Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing 
into the fire, and seeing therein, no doubt, a pretty, 
piquant face, with large brown eyes and a wealth of 
dark curls round a childish forehead. 

“ Yes ! ” he said, still musing, “ all right 1 ” 

“No hitch?” 

“None.” 

Lord Antony laughed pleasantly as be poured himself 
out another glass of wine. 


THE OUTRAGE 85 

" I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found the 
journey pleasant this time ? * 

“ No, friend, you need not ask,’* replied Sir Andrew, 
gaily. “ It was all right. ’ 

“Then here’s to her very good health,” said jovial 
Lord Tony. “She’s a bonnie lass, though she is a 
French one. And here’s to your courtship — may it 
flourish and prosper exceedingly. * 

He drained his glass to the last drop, then joined his 
friend beside the hearth. 

“Well! you’ll be doing the journey next, Tony, I 
expect,” said Sir Andrew, rousing himself from his 
meditations, “ you and Hastings, certainly ; and I hope 
you may have as pleasant a task as I had, and as 
charming a travelling companion. You have no idea, 
Tony 

“No! I haven’t,” interrupted his friend pleasantly, 
“but I’ll take your word for it. And now,” he added, 
whilst a sudden earnestness crept over his jovial young 
face, “how about business?” 

The two young men drew their chairs closer together, 
and instinctively, though they were alone, their voices 
sank to a whisper. 

“I saw the Scarlet Pimpernel alone, for a few 
moments in Calais,” said Sir Andrew, “a day or two 
ago. He crossed over to England two days before 
we did. He had escorted the party all the way from 
Paris, dressed — you’ll never credit it ! — as an old market 
woman, and driving — until they were safely out of the 
city — the covered cart, under which the Comtesse de 
Tournay, Mile. Suzanne, and the Vicomte lay concealed 
among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of 
course, never suspected who their driver was. He drove 
them right through a line of soldiery and a yelling 


86 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


mob, who were screaming, ‘A bas les aristas!* But 
the market cart got through along with some others, 
and the Scarlet Pimpernel, in shawl, petticoat and hood, 
yelled ‘ A bas les aristos ! ’ louder than anybody. Faith ! ” 
added the young man, as his eyes glowed with en- 
thusiasm for the beloved leader, “ that man’s a marvel ! 
His cheek is preposterous, I vow ! — and that’s what 
carries him through.” 

Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited 
than that of his friend, could only find an oath or two 
with which to show his admiration for his leader. 

“He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais,” 
said Sir Andrew, more quietly, “on the and of next 
month. Let me see I that will be next Wednesday.” 

“Yes.” 

“ It is, of course, the case of the Comte de Tournay, 
this time ; a dangerous task, for the Comte, whose 
escape from his chateau, after he had been declared a 
‘suspect’ by the Committee of Public Safety, was a 
masterpiece of the Scarlet Pimpernel’s ingenuity, is 
now under sentence of death. It will be rare sport 
to get him out of France, and you will have a narrow 
escape, if you get through at all. St Just has actually 
gone to meet him — of course, no one suspects St Just 
as yet ; but after that ... to get them both out of the 
country ! I’faith, ’twill be a tough job, and tax even the 
ingenuity of our chief. I hope I may yet have order* 
to be of the party.” 

“Have you any special instructions for me?” 

“Yes! rather more precise ones than usual. It 
appears that the Republican Government have sent 
an accredited agent over to England, a man named 
Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter against 
our league, and determined to discover the identity of 


THE OUTRAGE 


87 

our leader, so that he may have him kidnapped, the 
next time he attempts to set foot in France. This 
Chauvelin has brought a whole army of spies with 
him, and until the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks 
we should meet as seldom as possible on the business 
of the league, and on no account should talk to each 
other in public places for a time. When he wants to 
speak to us, he will contrive to let us know.” 

The two young men were both bending over the fire, 
for the blaze had died down, and only a red glow from 
the dying embers cast a lurid light on a narrow semi- 
circle in front of the hearth. The rest of the room lay 
buried in complete gloom ; Sir Andrew had taken a 
pocket-book from his pocket, and drawn therefrom a 
paper, which he unfolded, and together they tried to 
read it by the dim red firelight. So intent were they 
upon this, so wrapt up in the cause, the business they 
had so much at heart, so precious was this document 
which came from the very hand of their adored leader, 
that they had eyes and ears only for that. They lost 
count of the sounds around them, of the dropping of 
crisp ash from the grate, of the monotonous ticking 
of the clock, of the soft, almost imperceptible rustle 
of something on the floor close beside them. A figure 
had emerged from under one of the benches ; with 
snake-like, noiseless movements it crept closer and 
closer to the two young men, not breathing, only 
gliding along the floor, in the inky blackness of the 
room. 

“You are to read these instructions and commit 
them to memory,” said Sir Andrew, “then destroy 
them.” 

He was about to replace the letter-case into his 
pocket, when a tiny slip of paper fluttered from it and 


88 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


fell on to the floor. Lord Antony stooped and picked 
it up. 

“ What’s that ? ” he asked. 

11 1 don’t know,” replied Sir Andrew. 

*' It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly 
did not seem to be with the other paper.” 

“Strange! — I wonder when it got there? It is from 
the chief,” he added, glancing at the paper. 

Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap 
of paper on which a few words had been hastily scrawled, 
when suddenly a slight noise attracted their attention, 
which seemed to come from the passage beyond. 

** What’s that ? ” said both instinctively. Lord Antony 
crossed the room towards the door, which he threw open 
quickly and suddenly ; at that very moment he received 
a stunning blow between the eyes, which threw him back 
violently into the room. Simultaneously the crouching, 
snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled 
itself from behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew, 
felling him to the ground. 

All this occurred within the short space of two or three 
seconds, and before either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew 
had time or chance to utter a cry or to make the faintest 
struggle. They were each seized by two men, a muffler 
was quickly tied round the mouth of each, and they were 
pinioned to one another back to back, their arms, hands, 
and legs securely fastened. 

One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door ; 
he wore a mask and now stood motionless while the 
others completed their work. 

“All safe, citoyen !” said one of the men, as he took 
a final survey of the bonds which secured the two young 
men. 

“Goodl” replied the man at the door; “now 


THE OUTRAGE 89 

search their pockets and give me all the papers you 
find.” 

This was promptly and quietly done. The masked 
man having taken possession of all the papers, listened 
for a moment or two if there were any sound within “ The 
Fisherman’s Rest.” Evidently satisfied that this 
dastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once more 
opened the door and pointed peremptorily down the 
passage. The four men lifted Sir Andrew and Lord 
Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly 
as they had come, they bore the two pinioned young 
gallants out of the inn and along the Dover Road into 
the gloom beyond. 

In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring 
attempt was quickly glancing through the stolen papers. 

“Not a bad day’s work on the whole,” he muttered, 
as he quittjy took off his mask, and his pale, fox-like 
eyes glittered in the red glow of the fire. “Not a bad 
day’s work.” 

He opened one or two more letters from Sir Andrew 
Ffoulkes’ pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper 
which the two young men had only just had time to 
read; but one letter specially, signed Armai'd St Just, 
seemed to give him strange satisfaction. 

“ Armand St Just a traitor after all,” he murmured. 
*Now, fair Marguerite Blakeney,” he added viciously 
between his clenched teeth, “ I think that you will help 
me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel.” 


CHAPTER X 


IN THE OPERA BOX 

It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, 
the first of the autumn season in this memorable year of 
grace 1792. 

The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra 
boxes and the pit, as well as in the more plebeian 
balconies and galleries above. Gluck’s Orphtus 
made a strong appeal to the more intellectual 
portions of the house, whilst the fashionable women, 
the gaily-dressed and brilliant throng, spoke to 
the eye of those who cared but little for this “latest 
importation from Germany.” 

Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her 
grand aria by her numerous admirers ; Benjamin 
Incledon, the acknowledged favourite of the ladies, had 
receiveo special gracious recognition from the royal box ; 
and now the curtain came down after the glorious finale 
to the second act, and the audience, which had hung 
spell-bound on the magic strains of the great maestro, 
seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, 
previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish and 
frivolous tongues. 

In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces 
were to be seen. Mr Pitt, overweighted with cares of 
state, was finding brief relaxation in to-night’s musical 
treat; the Prince of Wales, jovial, rotund, somewhat 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


9i 


coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved about 
from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with 
those of his more intimate friends. 

In Lord Grenville’s box, too, a curious, interesting 
personality attracted everyone’s attention ; a thin, small 
figure with shrewd, sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, 
attentive to the music, keenly critical of the audience, 
dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair free from 
any powder. Lord Grenville — Foreign Secretary of 
State — paid him marked, though frigid deference. 

Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English 
types of beauty, one or two foreign faces stood out in 
marked contrast the haughty aristocratic cast of coun- 
tenance of the many French royalist emigres who, per- 
secuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their 
country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On 
these faces sorrow and care were deeply writ ; the women 
especially paid but little heed, either to the music or to 
the brilliant audience ; no doubt their thoughts were far 
away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in peril, or 
lately succumbed to a cruel fate. 

Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, 
but lately arrived from France, was a most conspicuous 
figure : dressed in deep, heavy black silk, with only a 
white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning 
about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who 
was vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad 
jokes, to bring a smile to the Comtesse’s sad mouth. 
Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte, both 
silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers. 
Suzanne’s eyes seemed wistful ; when she first entered 
the crowded house, she had looked eagerly all round, 
scanned every face, scrutinised every box. Evidently 
the one face she wished to see was not there, for she 


92 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


settled herself down quietly behind her mother, listened 
apathetically to the music, and took no further interest 
in the audience itself. 

“ Ah, Lord Grenville said Lady Portarles, as follow- 
ing a discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the 
Secretary of State appeared in the doorway of the box, 
“ you could not arrive more & propos. Here is Madame 
la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the 
latest news from France.” 

The distinguished diplomatist had come forward and 
was shaking hands with the ladies. 

“ Alas ! ” he said sadly, “ it is of the very worst. The 
massacres continue ; Paris literally reeks with blood ; and 
the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day.” 

Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her 
chair, listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic 
account of what went on in her own misguided country. 

“Ah, Monsieur !” she said in broken English, “it is 
dreadful to hear all that — and my poor husband still in 
that awful country. It is terrible for me to be sitting 
here, in a theatre, ail safe and in peace, whilst he is in 
such peril.” 

“ Lud, Madame ! ” said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, 
“your sitting in a convent won’t make your husband 
safe, and you have your children to consider : they are 
too young to be dosed with anxiety and premature 
mourning.” 

The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the 
vehemence of her friend. Lady Portarles, whose voice 
and manner would not have misfitted a jockey, had a 
heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and 
most gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse 
manners affected by some ladies at that time. 

“Besides which, Madame,” added Lord Grenville, 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


93 

u did you not tell me yesterday that the League of the 
Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their honour to bring 
M. le Comte safely across the Channel ? ” 

“ Ah, yes ! ” replied the Comtesse, “ and that is my 
only hope. I saw Lord Hastings yesterday ... he 
reassured me again.” 

“ Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the 
league have sworn, that they surely will accomplish. 
Ah ! ” added the old diplomatist with a sigh, “ if I were 
but a few years younger ...” 

“ La, man ! ” interrupted honest Lady Portarles, “ you 
are still young enough to turn your back on that French 
scarecrow that sits enthroned in your box to-night.” 

“ I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remem- 
ber that in serving our country we must put prejudices 
aside. M. Chauvelin is the accredited agent of his 
Government ...” 

“ Odd’* fish, man ! ” she retorted, 11 you don't call 
those bloodthirsty ruffians over there a government, do 
you ? ” 

“ It has not been thought advisable as yet,” said the 
Minister, guardedly, “ for England to break off diplomatic 
relations with France, and we cannot therefore refuse to 
receive with courtesy the agent she wishes to send to us.” 

“Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That 
sly little fox over there is nothing but a spy, I’ll warrant, 
and you'll find — an I'm much mistaken, that he'll con- 
cern himself little with diplomacy, beyond trying to do 
mischief to royalist refugees — to our heroic Scarlet Pim- 
pernel and to the members of that brave little league.” 

“ I am sure,” said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin 
lips, “ that if this Chauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he 
will find a faithful ally in Lady Blakeney.” 

“ Bless the woman ! ” ejaculated Lady Portarles, “ did 


94 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


ever anyone see such perversity ? My Lord Grenville, 
you h£ve the gift of the gab, will you please explain t« 
Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In 
your position here in England, Madame,” she added, 
turning a wrathful and resolute face towards the 
Comtesse, “you cannot afford to put on the hoity-toity 
airs you French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady 
Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those 
ruffians in France ; she may or may not have had anything 
to do with the arrest and condemnation of St Cyr, or 
whatever the man’s name is, but she is the leader of 
fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more 
money than any half-dozen other men put together, he is 
hand and glove with royalty, and your trying to snub 
Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but will make you 
look a fool. Isn’t that so, my lord ? ” 

But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to 
what reflections this homely tirade of Lady Portarles led 
the Comtesse de Tournay, remained unspoken, for the 
curtain had just risen on the third act of Orphtus y 
and admonishments to silence came from every part 
of the house. 

Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and 
slipped back into his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat 
all through this entSacte, with his eternal snuff-box in 
his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intently fixed upon 
a box opposite to him, where, with much frou-frou of 
silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity 
amongst the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just 
entered, accompanied by her husband, and looking 
divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden, reddish 
curls, slightly besprinkled with powder, and tied back at 
the nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. 
Always dressed in the very latest vagary of fashion, 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


93 


Marguerite alone among the ladies that night had dis- 
carded the cross-over fichu and broad-lapelled over- 
dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or 
three years. She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped 
gown, which so soon was to become the approved mode 
in every country in Europe. It suited her graceful, regal 
figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering 
stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery. 

As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, 
taking stock of all those present whom she knew. Many 
bowed to her as she did so, and from the royal box there 
came also a quick and gracious salute. 

Chauvelin watched her intently all through the com- 
mencement of the third act, as she sat enthralled with 
the music, her exquisite little hand toying with a small 
jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms and neck, 
covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems, 
the gift of the adoring husband who sprawled leisurely 
by her side. 

Marguerite was passionately fond of music, Orpheus 
charmed her to-night. The very joy of living was writ 
plainly upon the sweet young face, it sparkled out of the 
merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that lurked around the 
lips. She was after all but five-and-twenty, in the hey- 
day of youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, 
fited , petted, cherished. Two days ago the Day 
Dream had returned from Calais, bringing her news 
that her idolised brother had safely landed, that 
he thought of her, and would be prudent for her 
sake. 

What wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluck’s 
impassioned strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, 
forgot her vanished love-di earns, forgot even the lazy, 
good-humoured nonentity who had made up for his 


96 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly ad* 
vantages upon her. 

He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as 
convention demanded, making way for His Royal 
Highness, and for the host of admirers who in a con- 
tinued procession came to pay homage to the queen 
of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to 
more congenial friends probably. Marguerite did not 
even wonder whither he had gone — she cared so little; 
she had had a little court round her, composed of 
the jcutiesse doree of London, and had just dismissed 
them all, wishing to be alone with Gluck for a brief 
while. 

A discreet knock at the door roused her from her 
enjoyment. 

“Come in,*’ she said with some impatience, without 
turning to look at the intruder. 

Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that 
she was alone, and now, without pausing for that 
impatient “ Come in,” he quietly slipped into the box, 
and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite’s 
chair. 

“A word with you, citoyenne,” he said quietly. 

Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was cot 
altogether feigned. 

“ Lud, man ! you frightened me,” she said with a 
forced little laugh, “your presence is entirely inoppor- 
tune. I want to listen to Gluck, and have no mind for 
talking.” 

“ But this is my only opportunity,” he said, as quietly, 
and without waiting for permission, he drew a chair close 
behind her — so close that he could whisper in her ear, 
without disturbing the audience, and without being seen, 
in the dark background of the box. “ This is my only 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


97 


opportunity,” he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no 
reply, “Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so 
fttcd by her court, that a mere old friend has but very 
little chance.” 

“ Faith, man ! ” she said impatiently, “ you must seek 
for another opportunity then. I am going to Lord 
Grenville’s ball to-night after the opera. So are you, 
probably. I’ll give you five minutes then . . . 

“ Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite 
sufficient for me,” he rejoined placidly, “ and I think 
that you would be wise to listen to me, Citoyenne St Just.” 

Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not 
raised his voice above a whisper; he was now quietly 
taking a pinch of snuff, yet there was something in his 
attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which seemed 
to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of 
some deadly hitherto unguessed peril. 

“ Is that a threat, citoyen ? ” she asked at last. 

“ Nay, fair lady,” he said gallantly, “ only an arrow 
shot into the air.” 

He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse 
running heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with 
that feline sense of enjoyment of mischief about to be 
done. Then he said quietly — 

“Your brother, St Just, is in peril.” 

Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. 
He could only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed 
to be watching the stage intently, but Chauvelin was a 
keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of the 
eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost 
paralysed, tension of the beautiful, graceful figure. 

“Lud, then,” she said, with affected merriment, “since 
’tis one of your imaginary plots, you’d best go back to 
your own seat and leave me to enjoy the music.” 


98 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

And with her hand she began to beat time nervously 
against the cushion of the box. Selina Storace was 
singing the “Che faro” to an audience that hung spell* 
bound upon the prima donna’s lips. Chauvelin did net 
move from his seat ; he quietly watched that tiny nervous 
hand, the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck 
home. 

“ Well ? ” she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with 
the same feigned unconcern. 

“ Well, citoyenne ? ” he rejoined placidly, 

“ About my brother ? ” 

“ I have news of him for you which, I think, will 
interest you, but first let me explain. . . . May I ? ” 

The question was unnecessary. He felt, though 
Marguerite still held her head steadily averted from him, 
that her every nerve was strained to hear what he had 
to say. 

“ The other day, citoyenne,” he said, “ I asked for 
your help. . . . France needed it, and I thought I could 
rely on you, but you gave me your answer. . . . Since 
then the exigencies of my own affairs and your own 
social duties have kept us apart . . . although many 
things have happened. . . 

“To the point, I pray you, citoyen,” she said lightly; 
“the music is entrancing, and the audience will get 
impatient of your talk.” 

“ One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had 
the honour of meeting you at Dover, and less than an 
hour after I had your final answer, I obtained possession 
of some papers, which revealed another of those subtle 
schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats 
— that traitor de Tournay amongst others — all organised 
by that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of 
the threads, too, of this mysterious organisation have 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


99 

fallen into my hands, but not all, and I want you — nay ! 

you must help me to gather them together.” 

Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with 
marked impatience ; she now shrugged her shoulders 
and said gaily — 

“ Bah ! man. Have I not already told you that I care 
nought about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimper- 
nel. And had you not spoken about my brother . . 

11 A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne,” he continued 
imperturbably. “Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dew- 
hurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at * The Fisherman’s 
Rest' at Dover that same night.” 

“ I know. I saw them there.” 

“ They were already known to my spies as members 
of that accursed league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes 
who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay and her children 
across the Channel. When the two young men were 
alone, my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of 
the inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants, seized 
their papers, and brought them to me.” 

In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers ? 
. . . Had Armand been imprudent ? . . . The very 
thought struck her with nameless terror. Still she would 
not let this man see that she feared ; she laughed gaily 
and lightly. 

“ Faith ! and your impudence passes belief,” she said 
merrily. “ Robbery and violence ! — in England ! — in a 
crowded inn 1 Your men might have been caught in the 
act!” 

“What if they had? They are children of France, 
and have been trained by your humble servant. Had 
they been caught they would have gone to jail, or even 
to the gallows, without a word of protest or indiscretion ; 
at anyrate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is 


xoo THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


safer for these little operations than you think, and my 
men have experience.” 

“ Well ? And those papers ? ” she asked carelessly. 

“ Unfortunately, though they have given me cognis- 
ance of certain names . . . certain movements . . . 
enough, I think, to thwart their projected coup for the 
moment, it would only be for the moment, and still 
leaves me in ignorance cf the identity of the Scarlet 
Pimpernel.” 

“ La ! my friend,” she said, with the same assumed 
flippancy of manner, “then you are where you were 
before, aren’t you ? and you can let me enjoy the last 
strophe of the aria . Faith ! ” she added, ostentatiously 
smothering an imaginary yawn, “ had you not spoken 
about my brother ...” 

“ I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the 
papers there was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written 
by your brother, St Just.” 

“Well? And?” 

** That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy 
with the enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not 
a member, of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.” 

The blow had been struck at last. All along, Mar- 
guerite had been expecting it ; she would not show fear, 
she was determined to seem unconcerned, flippant even. 
She wished, when the shock came, to be prepared for it, 
to have all her wits about her — those wits which had 
been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she 
did not flinch. She knew that Chauvelin had spoken 
the truth ; the man was too earnest, too blindly devoted 
to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his 
countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to 
low, purposeless falsehoods. 

That letter of Armand’s — foolish, imprudent Armand 


IN THE OFERA BOX 


IOI 


— was in Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as 
if she had seen the letter with her own eyes ; and Chau- 
velin would hold that letter for purposes of his own, until 
it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against 
Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to 
laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had done before. 

11 La, man ! ” she said, speaking over her shoulder and 
looking him full and squarely in the face, “ did I not say 
it was some imaginary plot. . . . Armand in league with 
that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel ! . . . Armand busy 
helping those French aristocrats whom he despises ! . . . 
Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your imagination ! ” 

“ Let me make my point clear, citoyenne,” said 
Chauvelin, with the same unruffled calm, “ I must assure 
you that St Just is compromised beyond the slightest 
hope of pardon.” 

Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment 
or two. Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, 
trying to think, trying to face the situation, to realise 
what had best be done. 

In the house Storace had finished the aria> and was 
even now bowing in her classic garb, but in approved 
eighteenth-century fashion, to the enthusiastic audience, 
who cheered her to the echo. 

“Chauvelin,” said Marguerite Blakeney at last, 
quietly, and without that touch of bravado which had 
characterised her attitude all along, “Chauvelin, my 
friend, shall we try to understand one another. It 
seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with 
this damp climate. Now, tell me, you are very anxious 
to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn’t 
that so ? ” 

“ France’s most bitter enemy, citoyenne ... all the 
more dangerous, as he works in the dark.’ 


ioa THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


“All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well! — and 
you would now force me to do some spying work for you 
in exchange for my brother Armand’s safety? — Is that it? ” 

“ Fie 1 two very ugly words, fair lady," protested 
Chauvelin, urbanely. “ There can be no question of 
force, and the service which I would ask of you, in the 
name of France, could never be called by the shocking 
name of spying.” 

“ At anyrate, that is what it is called over here,” she 
said drily. “ That is your intention, is it not ? ” 

“ My intention is, that you yourself win a free pardon 
for Armand St Just by doing me a small service.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St Just,” he 
said eagerly. “ Listen : among the papers which were 
found about the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there 
was a tiny note. See ! ” he added, taking a tiny scrap of 
paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her. 

It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, 
the two young men had been in the act of reading, at 
the very moment when they were attacked by Chauvelin’s 
minions. Marguerite took it mechanically and stooped 
to read it. There were only two lines, written in a dis- 
torted, evidently disguised, handwriting ; she read them 
half aloud — 

“ 1 Remember we must not meet more often than is 
strictly necessary. You have all instructions for the 
2 nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I shall be at 
G.’s ball.’ " 

“ What does it mean ? ” she asked. 

“ Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand." 

“There a device here ir the corner, a small red 
flower . , 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


103 


“Yes” 

“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” she said eagerly, “and 
G.’s ball means Grenville’s ball. . . . He will be at my 
Lord Grenville’s ball to-night.” 

“That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne,” con- 
cluded Chauvelin, blandly. “ Lord Antony Dewhurst 
and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they were pinioned and 
searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a 
lonely house on the Dover Road, which I had rented 
for the purpose : there they remained close prisoners 
until this morning. But having found this tiny scrap of 
paper, my intention was that they should be in London, 
in time to attend my Lord Greville’s ball. You see, do 
you not? that they must have a great deal to say to 
their chief . . . and thus they will have an opportunity of 
speaking to him to-night, just as he directed them to do. 
Therefore, this morning, those two young gallants found 
every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the 
Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good 
horses standing ready saddled and tethered in the yard. 
I have not seen them yet, but I think we may safely 
conclude that they did not draw rein until they reached 
London. Now you see how simple it all is, citoyenne ! ” 

“ It does seem simple, doesn’t it ? ” she said, with a 
final bitter attempt at flippancy, “ when you want to kill 
a chicken . . . you take hold of it . . . then you 
wring its neck . . . it’s only the chicken who does not 
find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my 
throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . • You find 
it simple. ... I don’t.” 

“Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the 
brother you love from the consequences of his own folly.” 

Marguerite’s face softened, her eyes at last grew 
moist, as she murmured, half to herself: 


104 THE scarlet pimpernel 

“ The only being in the world who has loved me truty 
and constantly. . . . But what do you want me to do, 
Chauvelin ? ” she said, with a world of despair in her 
tear-choked voice. “ In my present position, it is well- 
nigh impossible ! ” 

“ Nay, citoyenne,” he said drily and relentlessly, not 
heeding that despairing, childlike appeal, which might 
have melted a heart of stone, “ as Lady Blakeney, no 
one suspects you, and with your help to-night I may 
— who knows ? — succeed in finally establishing the iden- 
tity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. . . . You are going to 
the ball anon. . • . Watch for me there, citoyenne, 
watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you hear a 
chance word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone 
to whom Sir Andrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst 
will speak. You are absolutely beyond suspicion now. 
The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville’s ball 
to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the 
word of France that your brother shall be safe.” 

Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. 
Marguerite felt herself entangled in one of those 
webs, from which she could hope for no escape. A 
precious hostage was being held for her obedience : for 
she knew that this man would never make an empty 
threat. No doubt Armand was already signalled to the 
Committee of Public Safety as one of the “ suspect 
he would not be allowed to leave France again, and 
would be ruthlessly struck, if she refused to obey 
Chauvelin. For a moment — woman-like — she still 
hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this 
man, whom she now feared and hated. 

“ If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin, 0 
she said pleasantly, “will you give :ue that letter of 
St Just’s?” 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


105 

•* If you render me useful assistance to-night, citoy- 
enne,” he replied with a sarcastic smile, “I will give 
you that letter . . . to-morrow.” 

“ You do not trust me ? ” 

M I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St Just’s life 
is forfeit to his country ... it rests with you to 
redeem it.” 

“ I may be powerless to help you,” she pleaded, “ were 
I ever so willing.” 

“That would be terrible indeed,” he said quietly, 
“for you . . . and for St Just.” 

Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man 
she could expect no mercy. All-powerful, he held the 
beloved life in the hollow of his hand. She knew him 
too well not to know that, if he failed in gaining his 
own ends, he would be pitiless. 

She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of the 
opera-house. The heart-appealing strains of the music 
seemed to reach her, as from a distant land. She drew 
her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders, and sat 
silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream. 

For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the 
loved one who was in danger, to that other man who 
also had a claim on her confidence and her affection. 
She felt lonely, frightened for Armand’s sake ; she 
longed to seek comfort and advice from some one, who 
would know how to help and console. Sir Percy 
Blakeney had loved her once ; he was her husband ; 
why should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? 
He had very little brains, it is true, but he had plenty of 
muscle : surely, if she provided the thought, and he the 
manly energy and pluck, together they could outwit the 
astute diplomatist, and save the hostage from his venge- 
ful hands, without imperilling the life of the noble 


10 6 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


leader of that gallant little band of heroes. Sir Percy 
knew St Just well — he seemed attached to him — she 
was sure that he could help. 

Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He 
had said his cruel “ Either — or — ” and left her to decide. 
He, in his turn now, appeared to be absorbed in the 
soul-stirring melodies of Orphtus , and was beating time 
to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head. 

A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her 
thoughts. It was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good- 
humoured, and wearing that half-shy, half-inane smile, 
which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve. 

“ Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m’dear,” he said, 
with his most exasperating drawl, “ I suppose you will 
want to goto that demmed ball. . . . Excuse me — er — 
Monsieur Chauvelin — I had not observed you. . . 

He extended two slender, white fingers towards 
Chauvelin, who had risen when Sir Percy entered the 
box. 

“ Are you coming, m’dear ? " 

“ Hush ! Sh ! Sh ! ” came in angry remonstrance 
from different parts of the house. 

“ Demmed impudence,” commented Sir Percy with a 
good-natured smile. 

Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed 
suddenly to have vanished away. She wrapped her 
cloak round her and without looking at her husband : 

“ I am ready to go,” she said, taking his arm. At 
the door of the box she turned and looked straight at 
Chauvelin, who, with his chapeau-bras under his arm, 
and a curious smile round his thin lips, was preparing to 
follow the strangely ill-assorted couple. 

“It is only au revoir t Chauvelin,” she said pleasantly, 
44 we shall meet at my Lord Grenville’s ball, anon.” 


IN THE OPERA BOX 


so 7 


And in her eyes the astute Frenchman read, no doubt, 
something which caused him profound satisfaction, for, 
with a sarcastic smile, he took a delicate pinch of snuff, 
then, having dusted his dainty lace jabot, he rubbed hit 
thin, bony hands contentedly together. 


CHAPTER XS 

lord Grenville’s ball 

The historic ball given by the then Secretary of State 
for Foreign Affairs — Lord Grenville — was the most 
brilliant function of the year. Though the autumn 
season had only just begun, everybody who was any- 
body had contrived to be in London in time to be 
present there, and to shine at this ball, to the best of 
his or her respective ability. 

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised 
to be present. He was coming on presently from the 
opera. Lord Grenville himself had listened to the two 
first acts of Orpheus , before preparing to receive his 
guests. At ten o’clock — an unusually late hour in those 
days — the grand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely 
decorated with exotic palms and flowers, were filled to 
overflowing. One room had been set apart for dancing, 
and the dainty strains of the minuet made a soft accom- 
paniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the 
numerous and brilliant company. 

In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stair- 
way, the distinguished host stood ready to receive his 
guests. Distinguished men, beautiful women, not- 
abilities from every European country had already filed 
past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies 
with him, which the extravagant fashion of the time de- 
manded, and then, laughing and talking, had dispersed 
in the ball, reception, and card rooms beyond. 

zoS 


LORD GRENVILLE’S BALL 


109 


Not far from Lord Grenville’s elbow, leaning against 
one of the console tables, Chauveiin, in his irreproach- 
able black costume, was taking a quiet survey of the 
brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady 
Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes 
glanced quickly towards the door every time a new- 
comer appeared. 

He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Re- 
volutionary Government of France was not likely to be 
very popular in England, at a time when the news of the 
awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror 
and Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the 
Channel. 

In his official capacity he had been received cour- 
teously by his English colleagues : Mr Pitt had shaken 
him by the hand ; Lord Grenville had entertained him 
more than once ; but the more intimate circles of 
London society ignored him altogether ; the women 
openly turned their backs upon him ; the men who held 
no official position refused to shake his hand. 

But Chauveiin was not the man to trouble himself 
about these social amenities, which he called mere 
incidents in his diplomatic career. He was blindly 
enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised 
all social inequalities, and he had a burning love for 
his own country : these three sentiments made him 
supremely indifferent to the snubs he received in this 
fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England. 

But, above all, Chauveiin had a purpose at heart. He 
firmly believed that the French aristocrat was the most 
bitter enemy of France ; he would have wished to see 
every one of them annihilated : he was one of those who, 
during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to 
litter the historic and ferocious desire “ that aristocrats 


no THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


might have but one head between them, so that it 
might be cut off with a single stroke of the guillotine.” 
And thus he looked upon every French aristocrat, who 
had succeeded in escaping from France, as so much 
prey of which the guillotine had been unwarrantably 
cheated. There is no doubt that those royalist cmigr'es t 
once they had managed to cross the frontier, did their 
very best to stir up foreign indignation against France. 
Plots without end were hatched in England, in Belgium, 
in Holland, to try and induce some great power to 
send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free King 
Louis, and to summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders 
of that monster republic. 

Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mys- 
terious personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel was a 
source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He and the few 
young jackanapes under his command, well furnished 
with money, armed with boundless daring, and acute 
cunning, had succeeded in rescuing hundreds of aristo- 
crats from France. Nine-tenths of the emigres , who 
were ftted at the English court, owed their safety to 
that man and to his league. 

Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris 
that he would discover the identity of that meddlesome 
Englishman, entice him over to France, and then . . . 
Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the 
very thought of seeing that enigmatic head falling 
under the knife of the guillotine, as easily as that of 
any other man. 

Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome 
staircase, all conversation stopped for a moment as the 
major-domo’s voice outside announced, — 

“ His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, 
Sir Percy Blakeney, Lady Blakeney.” 


LORD GRENVILLE’S BALL in 


Lord Granville went quickly to the door to receive his 
exalted guest. 

The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court 
suit of salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with 
gold, entered with Margaret Blakeney on his arm ; and 
on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous shimmering cream 
satin, cut in the extravagant “ Incroyable ” style, his fair 
hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and 
wrists, and the flat „%apeau-bras under his arm. 

After the few conventional words of deferential greet- 
ing, Lord Grenville said to his royal guest, — 

“ Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. 
Chauvelin, the accredited agent of the French Govern- 
ment ? ” 

Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had 
stepped forward, expecting this introduction. He 
bowed very low, whilst the Prince returned his salute 
with a curt nod of the head. 

“Monsieur,” said His Royal Highness coldly, “we 
will try to forget the government that sent you, and look 
upon you merely as our guest — a private gentleman from 
France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur.” 

“Monseigneur,” rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once 
again. “ Madame,” he added, bowing ceremoniously 
before Marguerite. 

“ Ah ! my little Chauvelin ! " she said with uncon- 
cerned gaiety, and extending her tiny hand to him. 
“ Monsieur and I are old friends, your Royal Highness.” 

“Ah, then,” said the Prince, this time very graciously, 
“ you are doubly welcome, Monsieur.” 

“ There is someone else I would crave permission to 
present to your Royal Highness,” here interposed Lord 
Grenville. 

“ Ah ! who is it ? ” asked the Prince. 


1 12 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


“ Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and 
her family, who have but recently come from France.” 

“ By all means ! — They are among the lucky ones 
then ! ” 

Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who 
sat at the further end of the room. 

“ Lud love me ! ” whispered his Royal Highness to 
Marguerite, as soon as he had caught sight of the rigid 
figure of the old lady ; “ Lud love me ! she looks very 
virtuous and very melancholy.” 

“Faith, your Royal Highness,” she rejoined with a 
smile, “ virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant 
when it is crushed.” 

“ Virtue, alas ! ” sighed the Prince, “ is mostly un^ 
becoming to your charming sex, Madame.” 

“Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,” 
said Lord Grenville, introducing the lady. 

“ This is a pleasure, Madame ; my royal father, as you 
know, is ever glad to welcome those of your compatriots 
whom France has driven from her shores.” 

“Your Royal Highness is ever gracious,” replied the 
Comtesse with becoming dignity. Then, indicating her 
daughter, who stood timidly by her side : “ My daughter 
Suzanne, Monseigneur,” she said. 

“ Ah ! charming ! — charming ! ” said the Prince, “ and 
now allow me, Comtesse, to introduce to you, Lady 
Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. You and 
she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every 
compatriot of Lady Blakeney’s is doubly welcome for 
her sake . . her friends are our friends . . . her 
enemies, the enemies of England.” 

Marguerite’s blue eyes had twinkled with merriment 
at this gracious speech from her exalted friend. The 
Comtesse de Tournay, who lately had so flagrantly 


LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL 113 

insulted her, was here receiving a public lesson, at 
which Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But 
the Comtesse, for whom respect of royalty amounted 
almost to a religion, was too well-schooled in courtly 
etiquette to show the slightest sign of embarrassment, a? 
the two ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one another. 

“His Royal Highness is ever gracious, Madame,” 
said Marguerite, demurely, and with a wealth of mischief 
in her twinkling blue eyes, “ but here there is no need 
for his kind mediation. . . . Your amiable reception of 
me at our last meeting still dwells pleasantly An my 
memory.” 

“ We poor exiles, Madame,” rejoined the Comtesse, 
frigidly, “ show our gratitude to England by devotion to 
the wishes of Monseigneur.” 

“ Madame 1 ” said Marguerite, with another ceremoni- 
ous curtsey. 

“Madame,” responded the Comtesse with equal 
dignity. 

The Prince in the meanwhile was saying a few gracious 
words to the young Vicomte. 

“ I am happy to know you, Monsieur le Vicomte,” he 
said. “ I knew your father well when he was ambassa- 
dor in London.” 

“ Ah, Monseigneur ! ” replied the Vicomte, “ I was a 
leetle boy then . . . and now I owe the honour of this 
meeting to our protector, the Scarlet Pimpernel.” 

“ Hush ! ” said the Prince, earnestly and quickly, as he 
indicated Chauvelin, who had stood a little on one side 
throughout the whole of this little scene, watching 
Marguerite and the Comtesse with an amused, sarcastic 
Mtle smile around his thin lips. 

“Nay, Monseigneur,” he said now, as if in direct 
response to the Prince’s challenge, “ pray do not check 


1 14 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

this gentleman’s display of gratitude ; the name of that 
interesting red flower is well known to me — and to 
France.” 

The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two. 

“Faith, then, Monsieur,” he said, “perhaps you know 
more about our national hero than we do ourselves . . . 
perchance you know who he is. . . . See ! ” he added, 
turning to the groups round the room, “the ladies 
hang upon your lips . . . you would render yourself 
popular among the fair sex if you were to gratify their 
curiosity.” 

“Ah, Monseigneur,” said Chauvelin, significantly, 
“rumour has it in France that your Highness could — 
an you would — give the truest account of that enig- 
matical wayside flower.” 

He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he 
spoke ; but she betrayed no emotion, and her eyes met 
his quit fearlessly. 

“ Nay, man,” replied the Prince, “my lips are sealed! 
and the members of the league jealously guard the 
secret of their chief ... so his fair adorers have to be 
content with worshipping a shadow. Here in England, 
Monsieur,” he added, with wonderful charm and dignity, 
“we but name the Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair 
cheek is suffused with a blush of enthusiasm. None 
have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We know 
not if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill- 
formed ; but we know that he is the bravest gentleman 
in all the world, and we ail feel a little proud, Monsieur, 
when we remember that he is an Englishman.” 

“ Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin,” added Marguerite, look- 
ing almost with defiance across at the placid, sphinx-like 
face of the Frenchman, “His Royal Highness should 
add that we ladies think of him as of a hero of old . « , 


LORD GRENVILLE’S BALL 115 

we worship him ... we wear his badge ... we tremble 
for him when he is in danger, and exult with him in the 
hour of his victory.” 

Chauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the 
Prince and to Marguerite; he felt that both speeches 
were intended — each in their way — to convey contempt 
or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle Prince he de- 
spised; the beautiful woman, who in her golden hair 
wore a spray of small red flowers composed of rubies 
and diamonds — her he held in the hollow of his hand : 
he could afford to remain silent and to await events. 

A long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence 
which had fallen over everyone. 

“ And we poor husbands,” came in slow, affected 
accents from gorgeous Sir Percy, “ we have to stand by 
. . . while they worship a demmed shadow.” 

Everyone laughed — the Prince more loudly than 
anyone. The tension of subdued excitement was re- 
lieved, and the next moment everyone was laughing and 
chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed 
in the adjoining rooms. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 

Marguerite suffered intensely. Though she laughed 
and chatted, though she was more admired, more 
surrounded, more feted than any woman there, she felt 
like one condemned to death, living her last day upon 
this earth. 

Her nerves were in a state of painful tension, which 
had increased a hundredfold during that brief hour 
which she had spent in her husband’s company, between 
the opera and the ball. The short ray of hope — that 
she might find in this good-natured, lazy individual a 
valuable friend and adviser — had vanished as quickly as 
it had come, the moment she found herself alone with 
him. The same feeling of good-humoured contempt 
which one feels for an animal or a faithful servant, made 
her turn away with a smile from the man who should 
have been her moral support in this heart-rending crisis 
through which she was passing : who should have been 
her cool-headed adviser, when feminine sympathy and 
sentiment tossed her hither and thither, between her love 
for her brother, who was faraway and in mortal peril, and 
horror of the awful service which Chauvelin had exacted 
from her, in exchange for Armand’s safety. 

There he stood, the moral support, the cool-headed 
adviser, surrounded by a crowd of brainless, empty- 
headed young fops, who were even now repeating from 
mouth to mouth, and with erery sign of the keenest 
u( 


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 


ii 7 

enjoyment, a doggerel couplet which he had just given 
forth. 

Everywhere the absurd, silly words met her : people 
•eemed to have little else to speak about, even the Prince 
had asked her, with a laugh, whether she appreciated her 
husband's latest poetic efforts. 

u All done in the tying of a cravat,” Sir Percy had 
declared to his clique of admirers 

** We seek him here, we seek him there, 

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. 

Is he in heaven ? — Is he in hell ? 

That demmed, elusive Pimpernel ? ” 

Sir Percy’s bon mot had gone the round of the brilliant 
reception-rooms. The Prince was enchanted. He 
vowed that life without Blakeney would be but a dreary 
- desert. Then, taking him by the arm, had led him to the 
card-room, and engaged him in a long game of hazard. 

Sir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gather- 
ings seemed to centre round the card-table, usually 
allowed his wife to flirt, dance, to amuse or bore herself 
as much as she liked. And to-night, having delivered 
himself of his bon mot y he had left Marguerite surrounded 
by a crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious and 
willing to help her to forget that somewhere in the 
spacious reception-rooms, there was a long, lazy being 
who had been fool enough to suppose that the cleverest 
woman in Europe would settle down to the prosaic 
bonds of English matrimony. 

Her still overwrought nerves, her excitement and 
agitation, lent beautiful Marguerite Blakeney much 
additional charm : escorted by a veritable bevy of men 
of all ages and of most nationalities, she called forth many 
exclamations of admiration from everyone as she passed. 

She would not allow herself any more time to think. 


u8 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


Her early, somewhat Bohemian training had made her 
something of a fatalist. She felt that events would 
shape themselves, that the directing of them was not in 
her hands. From Chauvelin she knew that she could 
expect no mercy. He had set a price upon Armand’s 
head, and left it to her to pay or not, as she chose. 

Later on in the evening she caught sight of Sir Andrew 
Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, who seemingly 
had just arrived. She noticed at once that Sir Andrew 
immediately made for little Suzanne de Tournay, and 
that the two young people soon managed to isolate 
themselves in one of the deep embrasures of the 
mullioned windows, there to carry on a long conversa- 
tion, which seemed very earnest and very pleasant on 
both sides. 

Both the young men looked a little haggard and 
anxious, but otherwise they were irreproachably dressed, 
and there was not the slightest sign, about their courtly 
demeanour, of the terrible catastrophe, which they must 
have felt hovering round them and round their chief. 

That the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had no 
intention of abandoning its cause, she had gathered 
through little Suzanne herself, who spoke openly of the 
assurance she and her mother had had that the Comte 
de Tournay would be rescued from France by the 
league, within the next few days. Vaguely she began to 
wonder, as she looked at the brilliant and fashionable 
crowd in the gaily-lighted ball-room, which of these 
worldly men round her was the mysterious “ Scarlet 
Pimpernel,” who held the threads of such daring plots, 
and the fate of valuable lives in his hands. 

A burning curiosity seized her to know him : although 
for months she had heard of him and had accepted his 
anonymity, as everyone else in society had done ; but 


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 


119 


oow she longed to know — quite impersonally, quite 
apart from Armand, and oh ! quite apart from Chauvelin 
— only for her own sake, for the sake of the enthusiastic 
admiration she had always bestowed on his bravery and 
cunning. 

He was at the ball, of course, somewhere, since Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst were here, 
evidently expecting to meet their chief — and perhaps to 
get a fresh mot (Tordre from him. 

Marguerite looked round at everyone, at the aristocratic 
high-typed Norman faces, the squarely-built, fair-haired 
Saxon, the more gentle, humorous caste of the Celt, 
wondering which of these betrayed the power, the energy, 
the cunning which had imposed its will and its leader- 
ship upon a number of high-born English gentlemen, 
among whom rumour asserted was His Royal Highness 
himself. 

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely not, with his gentle 
blue eyes, which were looking so tenderly and longingly 
after little Suzanne, who was being led away from the 
pleasant tete-a-tete by her stern mother. Marguerite 
watched him across the room, as he finally turned away 
with a sigh, and seemed to stand, aimless and lonely, 
now that Suzanne’s dainty little figure had disappeared 
in the crowd. 

She watched him as he strolled towards the doorway, 
which led to a small boudoir beyond, then paused and 
leaned against the framework of it, looking still anxiously 
all round him. 

Marguerite contrived for the moment to evade her 
present attentive cavalier, and she skirted the fashion- 
able crowd, drawing nearer to the doorway, against 
which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she wished to get 
closer to him, she could not have said : perhaps she was 


120 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


impelled by an all-powerful fatality, which so often seems 
to rule the destinies of men. 

Suddenly she stopped: her very heart seemed to 
stand still, her eyes, large and excited, flashed for a 
moment towards that doorway, then as quickly were 
turned away again. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was still in 
the same listless position by the door, but Marguerite 
had distinctly seen that Lord Hastings — a young buck, 
a friend of her husband’s and one of the Prince’s set — 
had, as he quickly brushed past him, slipped something 
into his hand. 

For one moment longer — oh ! it was the merest flash 
—Marguerite paused : the next she had, with admirably 
played unconcern, resumed her walk across the room — 
but this time more quickly towards that doorway whence 
Sir Andrew had now disappeared. 

All this, from the moment that Marguerite had caught 
sight of Sir Andrew leaning against the doorway, until 
she followed him into the little boudoir beyond, had 
occurred in less than a minute. Fate is usually swift 
when she deals a blow. 

Now Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It 
was Marguerite St Just who was there only : Marguerite 
St Just who had passed her childhood, her early youth, 
in the protecting arms of her brother Armand. She had 
forgotten everything else — her rank, her dignity, her secret 
enthusiasms — everything save that Armand stood in peril 
of his life, and that there, not twenty feet away from her, 
in the small boudoir which was quite deserted, in the 
very hands of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, might be the talisman 
which would save her brother’s life. 

Barely another thirty seconds had elapsed between 
the moment when Lord Hastings slipped the mysterious 
“something ” into Sir Andrew’s hand, and the one when 


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 


121 


she, in her turn, reached the deserted boudoir. Sir 
Andrew was standing with his back to her and close to 
a table upon which stood a massive silver candelabra. 
A slip of paper was in his hand, and he was in the very 
act of perusing its contents. 

Unperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the 
slightest sound upon the heavy carpet, not daring to 
breathe until she had accomplished her purpose, Mar- 
guerite slipped close behind him. ... At that moment 
he looked round and saw her; she uttered a groan, 
passed her hand across her forehead, and murmured 
faintly, — 

“ The heat in the room was terrible ... I felt so 
faint. . . . Ah! . . ." 

She tottered almost as if she would fall, and Sir 
Andrew, quickly recovering himself, and crumpling in 
his hand the tiny note he had been reading, was only, 
apparently, just in time to support her. 

“ You are ill, Lady Blakeney ? ” he asked with much 
concern. “ Let me . . 

“No, no, nothing — ” she interrupted quickly. “A 
chair — quick.” 

She sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing 
back her head, closed her eyes. 

“ There ! ” she murmured, still faintly ; “ the giddiness 
is passing off. . . . Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I 
assure you I already feel better.” 

At moments like these there is no doubt — and psycho- 
logists actually assert it — that there is in us a sense 
which has absolutely nothing to do with the other five : 
it is not that we see, it is not that we hear or touch, yet 
we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there 
with her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was 
immediately behind her, and on her right was the table 


122 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


with the five-armed candelabra upon it. Before her 
mental vision there was absolutely nothing but Armand’s 
face. Armand, whose life was in the most imminent 
danger, and who seemed to be looking at her from a 
background upon which were dimly painted the seething 
crowd of Paris, the bare walls of the Tribunal of Public 
Safety, with Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, 
demanding Armand’s life in the name of the people of 
France, and the lurid guillotine with its stained knife 
waiting for another victim . . . Armand ! . . . 

For one moment there was dead silence in the little 
boudoir. Beyond, from the brilliant ball-room, the 
sweet notes of the gavotte, the frou-frou of rich 
dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry 
crowd, came as a strange, weird accompaniment to the 
drama which was being enacted here. 

Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it 
was that that extra sense became potent in Marguerite 
Blakeney. She could not see, for her eyes were closed ; 
she could not hear, for the noise from the ball-room 
drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of 
paper; nevertheless she knew — as if she had both seen 
and heard — that Sir Andrew was even now holding the 
paper to the flame of one of the candles. 

At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she 
opened her eyes, raised her hand and, with two dainty 
fingers, had taken the burning scrap of paper from the 
young man’s hand. Then she blew out the flame, and 
held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern. 

“ How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew,” she said gaily, 
“surely ’twas your grandmother who taught you that the 
smell of burnt paper was a sovereign remedy against 
giddiness.” 

She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly 


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 




between her jewelled fingers ; that talisman which 
perhaps would save her brother Armand’s life. Sir 
Andrew was staring at her, too dazed for the moment 
to realize what had actually happened ; he had been 
taken so completely by surprise, that he seemed quite 
unable to grasp the fact that the slip of paper, which she 
held in her dainty hand, was one perhaps on which the 
life of his comrade might depend. 

Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter. 

“Why do you stare at me like that?” she said play- 
fully. “I assure you I feel much better; your remedy 
has proved most effectual. This room is most delight- 
fully cool,” she added, with the same perfect composure, 
“and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is 
fascinating and soothing.” 

She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and 
pleasant way, whilst Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, 
was racking his brains as to the quickest method he 
could employ, to get that bit of paper out of that 
beautiful woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and 
tumultuous thoughts rushed through his mind: he 
suddenly remembered her nationality, and worst of all, 
recollected that horrible tale anent the Marquis de St 
Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the sake 
of Sir Percy, as well as for her own. 

“What? Still dreaming and staring?” she said, with 
a merry laugh, “ you are most ungallant, Sir Andrew ; 
and now I come to think of it, you seemed more startled 
than pl*8t$S(S when you saw me just now. I do believe, 
after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet 
a remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused 
you to burn this tiny scrap of paper. ... I vow it must 
have been your lady love’s last cruel epistle you were 
trying to destroy. Now confess 1 ” she added, playfully 


124 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


holding up the scrap of paper, “ does this contain hei 
final conge, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends ? n 
“ Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir Andrew, 
who was gradually recovering his self-possession, “ this 
little note is undoubtedly mine, and . . ." 

Not caring whether his action was one that would be 
styled ill-bred towards a lady, the young man had made 
a bold dash for the note ; but Marguerite's thoughts flew 
quicker than his own \ her actions, under pressure of this 
intense excitement, were swifter and more sure. She 
was tall and strong ; she took a quick step backwards 
and knocked over the small Sheraton table which was 
already top-heavy, and which fell down with a crash, 
together with the massive candelabra upon it 
She gave a quick cry of alarm : 

“ The candles, Sir Andrew — quick ! M 
There was not much damage done ; one or two of the 
candles had blown out as the candelabra fell ; others had 
merely sent some grease upon the valuable carpet ; one 
had ignited the paper shade over it. Sir Andrew quickly 
and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the 
candelabra upon the table ; but this had taken him a 
few seconds to do, and those seconds had been all that 
Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at the paper, 
and to note its contents — a dozen words in the same 
distorted handwriting she had seen before, and bearing 
the same device — a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink. 

When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only 
saw on her face alarm at the untoward accident and 
relief at its happy issue ; whilst the tiny and momentous 
note had apparently fluttered to the ground. Eagerly 
the young man picked it up, and his face looked much 
relieved, as his fingers closed tightly over it. 

“ For shame, Sir Andrew,” she said, shaking her head 


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 12 $ 

with a playful sigh, “ making havoc in the heart of some 
impressionable duchess, whilst conquering the affections 
of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well ! I do believe it 
was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened 
the entire Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just 
on purpose to make me drop love’s message, before 
it had been polluted by my indiscreet eyes. To think 
that, a moment longer, and I might have known the 
secrets of an erring duchess.” 

“You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir 
Andrew, now as calm as she was herself, “if I resume 
the interesting occupation which you had interrupted?” 

“By all means, Sir Andrew ! How should I venture 
to thwart the love-god again ? Perhaps he would mete 
out some terrible chastisement against my presumption. 
Burn your love-token, by all means ! ” 

Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long 
spill, and was once again holding it to the flame of the 
candle, which had remained alight. He did not notice 
the strange smile on the face of his fair vis-d-vts, so 
intent was he on the work of destruction; perhaps, 
had he done so, the look of relief would have faded 
from his face. He watched the fateful note, as it curled 
under the flame. Soon the last fragment fell on the 
floor, and he placed his heel upon the ashes. 

“And now, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite Blakeney, 
with the pretty nonchalance peculiar to herself, and 
with the most winning of smiles, “will you venture 
to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking 
me to dance the minuet?” 


CHAPTER XIII 

EITHER — OR ? 

The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed 
to read on the half-scorched piece of paper, seemed 
literally to be the words of Fate. “Start myself to- 
morrow. . . .” This she had read quite distinctly ; 
then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, 
which obliterated the next few words; but, right at 
the bottom, there was another sentence, which was now 
standing clearly and distinctly, like letters of fire, before 
her mental vision. “If you wish to speak to me again, 
I shall be in the supper-room at one o’clock precisely.’* 
The whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled little 
device — a tiny star-shaped flower, which had become 
so familiar to her. 

One o’clock precisely ! It was now close upon eleven, 
the last minuet was being danced, with Sir Andrew 
Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney leading the 
couples, through its delicate and intricate figures. 

Close upon eleven ! the hands of the handsome 
Louis XV. clock upon its ormolu bracket seemed to 
move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours more, 
and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. 
In two hours she must make up her mind whether 
she will keep the knowledge so cunningly gained to 
herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether she 
will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted 
to his fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above 
all, unsuspecting. It seemed a horrible thing to do. 
But then, there was Armand ! Armand, too, was noble 
126 


EITHER — OR? 


127 


and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand 
loved her, would have willingly trusted his life in her 
hands, and now, when she could save him from death, 
she hesitated. Oh ! it was monstrous ; her brother’s 
kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to be 
looking reproachfully at her. “You might have saved 
me, Margot ! ” he seemed to say to her, “ and you chose 
the life of a stranger, a man you do not know, whom you 
have never seen, and preferred that he should be safe, 
whilst you sent me to the guillotine ! ” 

All these conflicting thoughts raged through Mar- 
guerite’s brain, while, with a smile upon her lips, she 
glided through the graceful mazes of the minuet. She 
noted — with that acute sense of hers — that she had 
succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew’s fears. 
Her self-control had been absolutely perfect — she was 
a finer actress at this moment, and throughout the 
whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon 
the boards of the Com^die Frangaise; but then, a 
beloved brother’s life had not depended upon her 
histrionic powers. 

She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no 
further allusions to the supposed billet doux , which had 
caused Sir Andrew Ffoulkes such an agonising five 
minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under 
her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever 
doubt may have crossed his mind at the moment, she 
had, by the time the last bars of the minuet had been 
played, succeeded in completely dispelling it ; he never 
realised in what a fever of excitement she was, what 
effort it cost her to keep up a constant ripple of banal 
conversation. 

When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew 
to take her into the next room. 


* 2 3 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 




“ 1 have promised to go down to supper with His 
Royal Highness,” she said, “but before we pait, tell 
me ... am I forgiven?” 

“Forgiven?” 

“Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . . 
But, remember, I am not an Englishwoman, and I 
do not look upon the exchanging of billet doux as a 
crime, and I vow I’ll not tell my little Suzanne. But 
now, tell me, shall I welcome you at my water-party on 
Wednesday?” 

“I am not sure, Lady Blakeney,”he replied evasively. 
“I may have to leave London to-morrow.” 

“I would not do that, if I were you,” she said 
earnestly; then seeing the anxious look once more 
reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily; “No one 
can throw a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew, 
we should so miss you on the bowling-green.” 

He had led her across the room, to one beyond, where 
already His Royal Highness was waiting for the beautiful 
Lady Blakeney. 

“ Madame, supper awaits us,” said the Prince, offering 
his arm to Marguerite, “and I am full of hope. The 
goddess Fortune has frowned so persistently on me at 
hazard, that I look with confidence for the smiles of the 
goddess of Beauty.” 

“Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card 
tables?” asked Marguerite, as she took the Prince’3 
arm. 

“ Aye ! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content 
with being the richest among my father’s subjects, 
has also the most outrageous luck. By the way, where 
is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this life 
would be but a dreary desert without your smiles and 
his sallies.” 


4 


CHAPTER XIV 
OWE o'clock PRECISELY I 

Supper had been extremely gay. All those present 
declared, that never had Lady Blakeney been more 
adorable, nor that “ demmed idiot ” Sir Percy more 
amusing. 

His Royal Highness had laughed until the tears 
streamed down his cheeks at Blakeney’s foolish yet 
funny repartees. His doggerel verse, “ We seek him 
here, we seek him there,” etc., was sung to the tune of 
“Ho! Merry Britons!” and to the accompaniment of 
glasses knocked loudly against the table. Lord Gren- 
ville, moreover, had a most perfect cook — some wags 
asserted that he was a scion of the old French noblesse l 
who, having lost his fortune, had come to seek it in the 
cuisine of the Foreign Office. 

Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, 
and surely not a soul in that crowded supper-room had 
even an inkling of the terrible struggle which was raging 
within her heart. 

The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long 
past midnight, and even the Prince of Wales was think- 
ing of leaving the supper-table. Within the next half- 
hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted 
against one another — the dearly-beloved brother and he, 
the unknown hero. 

Marguerite had not even tried to see Chauvelin during 
this last hour; she knew that his keen, fox-like eyes 

I 1*9 


130 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

would terrify her at once, and incline the balance of her 
decision towards Armand. Whilst she did not see him, 
there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague, un- 
defined hope that “ something ” would occur, something 
big, enormous, epoch-making, which would shift from 
her young, weak shoulders this terrible burden of re- 
sponsibility, of having to choose between two such cruel 
alternatives. 

But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony 
which they invariably seem to assume when our very 
nerves ache with their incessant ticking. 

After supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal High- 
ness had left, and there was general talk of departing 
among the older guests ; the young ones were indefatig- 
able and had started on a new gavotte, which would fill 
the next quarter of an hour. 

Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance ; there 
is a limit to the most enduring self-control. Escorted 
by a Cabinet Minister, she had once more found her 
way to the tiny boudoir, still the most deserted among 
all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must be lying 
in wait for her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible 
opportunity for a tetc-ci-tcU. His eyes had met hers for 
a moment after the 'fore-supper minuet, and she knew 
that the keen diplomatist, with those searching pale eye* 
of his, had divined that her work was accomplished. 

Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most 
terrible conflict heart of woman can ever know, had re- 
signed herself to its decrees. But Armand must be 
saved at any cost ; he, first of all, for he was her brother, 
had been mother, father, friend to her ever since she, a 
tiny babe, had lost both her parents. To think of 
Armand dying a traitor’s death on the guillotine was 
too horrible even to dwell upon — impossible, in fact 


ONE O’CLOCK PRECISELY I 131 

That could never be, never. ... As for the stranger, 
the hero . . . well ! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite 
would redeem her brother’s life at the hands of the 
relentless enemy, then let that cunning Scarlet Pimper- 
nel extricate himself after that. 

Perhaps — vaguely — Marguerite hoped that the daring 
plotter, who for so many months had baffled an army of 
spies, would still manage to evade Chauvelin and remain 
immune to the end. 

She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty 
discourse of the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt 
that he had found in Lady Blakeney a most perfect 
listener. Suddenly she saw the keen, fox-like face of 
Chauvelin peeping through the curtained doorway. 

“ Lord Fancourt,” she said to the Minister, “ will you 
do me a service ? ” 

“ I am entirely at your ladyship’s service,” he replied 
gallantly. 

“ Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room ? 
And if he is, will you tell him that I am very tired, and 
would be glad to go home soon.” 

The commands of a beautiful woman are binding on 
all mankind, even on Cabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt 
prepared to obey instantly. 

“ I do not like to lea/e your ladyship alone,” he said. 

“ Never fear. I shall be quite safe here — and, I think, 
undisturbed . . . but I am really tired. You know Sir 
Percy will drive back to Richmond. It is a long way, 
and we shall not — an we do not hurry — get home before 
daybreak.” 

Lord Fancourt had perforce to go. 

The moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped 
into the room, and the next instant stood calm and im- 
passive by her side. 


13 2 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

** You have news for me ? ” he said. 

An icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round 
Marguerite’s shoulders ; though her cheeks glowed with 
fire, she felt chilled and numbed. Oh, Armand ! will 
you ever know the terrible sacrifice of pride, of dignity, 
of womanliness a devoted sister is making for your sake ? 

“ Nothing of importance,” she said, staring mechanic* 
ally before her, “ but it might prove a clue. I contrived 
—no matter how — to detect Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in the 
very act of burning a paper at one of these candles, in 
this very room. That paper I succeeded in holding 
between my fingers for the space of two minutes, and to 
cast my eye on it for that of ten seconds.” 

“ Time enough to learn its contents ? ” asked Chauvelin, 
quietly. 

She nodded. Then she continued in the same even, 
mechanical tone of voice — 

“ In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough 
device of a small star-shaped flower. Above it I read 
two lines, everything else was scorched and blackened 
by the flame.” 

“ And what were these two lines ? ” 

Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For 
an instant she felt that she could not speak the words, 
which might send a brave man .o his death. 

“ It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned,” 
added Chauvelin, with dry sarcasm, “for it might have 
fared ill with Armand St Just. What were the two lines, 
citoyenne ? ” 

“One was, *1 start myself to-morrow,’” she said 
quietly ; “ the other — ‘ If you wish to speak to me, I 
shall be in the supper-room at one o’clock precisely.’ ” 

Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the 
mantelpiece. 


ONE O’CLOCK PRECISELY! 133 

14 Then I have plenty of time,” he said placidly. 

“ What are you going to do ? ” she asked. 

She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her 
head and heart throbbed with the awful strain upon her 
nerves. Oh, this was cruel ! cruel ! What had she done 
to have deserved all this ? Her choice was made : had 
she done a vile action or one that was sublime? The 
recording angel, who writes in the book of gold, alone 
could give an answer. 

“What are you going to do ?” she repeated mechanic- 
ally. 

“Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will 
depend.” 

“On what ?” 

“ On whom I snail see in the supper-room at one 
o’clock precisely.” 

“ You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But 
you do not know him.” 

“ No. But I shall presently.” 

“Sir Andrew will have warned him.” 

** I think not. When you parted from him after the 
minuet he stood and watched you, for a moment or two, 
with a look which gave me to understand that something 
had happened between you. It was only natural, was it 
not ? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the nature 
of that * something.’ I thereupon engaged the young 
gallant in a long and animated conversation — we dis- 
cussed Herr Gluck’s singular success in London— until 
a lady claimed his arm for supper.” 

“ Since then ? ” 

“ I did not lose sight of him through supper. When 
we all came upstairs again, Lady Portarles buttonholed 
him and started on the subject of pretty Mdlle. Suzanne 
de Tournay. I knew he would not move until Lady 


134 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

Portarles had exhausted the subject, which will not be 
for another quarter of an hour at least, and it is five 
minutes to one now.” 

He was preparing to go, and went up to the door- 
way, where, drawing aside the curtain, he stood for a 
moment pointing out to Marguerite the distant figure of 
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close conversation with Lady 
Portarles. 

“ I think,” he said, with a triumphant smile, “that I 
may safely expect to find the person I seek in the 
dining-room, fair lady.” 

“ There may be more than one." 

“Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be 
shadowed by one of my men ; of these, one, or perhaps 
two, or even three, will leave for France to-morrow. 
One of these will be the ‘ Scarlet Pimpernel.* ** 

“Yes ?— Arid?" 

“I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow. 
The papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes, speak of the neighbourhood of Calais, 
of an inn which I know well, called ‘ Le Chat Gris,’ of a 
lonely place somewhere on the coast — the Pere Blan- 
chard’s hut — which I must endeavour to find. All 
these places are given as the point, where this meddle- 
some Englishman has bidden the traitor de Tournay 
and others to meet his emissaries. But it seems that he 
has decided not to send his emissaries, that ‘he will 
start himself to-morrow.* Now, one of those persons 
whom I shall see anon in the supper-room, will be 
journeying to Calais, and I shall follow that person, until 
I have tracked him to where those fugitive aristocrats 
await him ; for that person, fair lady, will be the man 
whom I have sought for, for nearly a year, the man 
whose energy has outdone me, whose ingenuity has 


ONE O’CLOCK PRECISELY! 135 

baffled me, whose audacity has set me wondering — yes ! 
me ! — who have seen a trick or two in my time— the 
mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.” 

“ And Armand ? ” she pleaded. 

“ Have I ever broken my word ? I promise you that 
the day the Scarlet Pimpernel and I start for France, I 
will send you that imprudent letter of his by special 
courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word of 
France, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome 
Englishman, St Just will be here in England, safe ia 
the arms of his charming sister.” 

And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look 
at the clock, Chauvelin glided out of the room. 

It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, 
all the din of music, dancing, and laughter, she could 
hear his cat-like tread, gliding through the vast reception- 
rooms ; that she could hear him go down the massive 
staircase, reach the dining-room and open the door. 
Fate had decided, had made her speak, had made her 
do a vile and abominable thing, for the sake of the 
brother she loved. She lay back in her chair, passive 
and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy ever 
present before her aching eyes. 

When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was 
quite deserted. It had that woebegone, forsaken, 
tawdry appearance, which reminds one so much of a 
ball-dress, the morning after. 

Half- empty glasses littered the table, unfolded 
napkins lay about, the chairs — turned towards one 
another in groups of twos and threes — seemed like the 
seats of ghosts, in close conversation with one another. 
There were sets of two chairs — very close to one 
another — in the far corners of the room, which spoke of 
recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and 


1 36 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

cnampagne; there were sets of three and four chairs, 
that recalled pleasant, animated discussions over the 
latest scandals ; there were chairs straight up in a row 
that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated 
dowagers ; there were a few isolated, single chairs, close 
to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most 
rtchtrckt dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that 
spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville’s 
cellars. 

It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable 
gathering upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house, 
where balls and good suppers are given; a picture 
drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and 
colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gor- 
geously embroidered coats were no longer there to fill 
in the foreground, and now that the candles flickered 
sleepily in their sockets. 

Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin 
hands together, he looked round the deserted supper- 
room, whence even the last flunkey had retired in order 
to join his friends in the hall below. All was silence in 
the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte, 
the hum of distant talk and laughter, and the rumble of 
an occasional coach outside, only seemed to reach this 
palace of the Sleeping Beauty as the murmur of some 
flitting spooks far away. 

It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that 
the keenest observer — a veritable prophet — could never 
have guessed that, at this present moment, that deserted 
supper-room was nothing but a trap laid for the capture 
of the most cunning and audacious plotter, those stirring 
times had ever seen. 

Chauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the im- 
mediate future. What would this man be like, whom he 


ONE O’CLOCK PRECISELY! 137 

and the leaders of a whole revolution had sworn to bring 
to his death? Everything about him was weird and 
mysterious ; his personality, which he had so cunningly 
concealed, the power he wielded over nineteen English 
gentlemen who seemed to obey his every command 
blindly and enthusiastically, the passionate love and 
submission he had roused in his little trained band, and, 
above all, his marvellous audacity, the boundless im- 
pudence which had caused him to beard his most 
implacable enemies, within the very walls of Paris. 

No wonder that in France the sobriquet of the 
mysterious Englishman roused in the people a super- 
stitious shudder. Chauvelin himself as he gazed round 
the deserted room, where presently the weird hero 
would appear, felt a strange feeling of awe creeping all 
down his spine. 

But his plans were well laid. He felt sure that the 
Scarlet Pimpernel had not been warned, and felt equally 
sure that Marguerite Blakeney had not played him false. 
If she had ... a cruel look, that would have made her 
shudder, gleamed in Chauvelin’s keen, pale eyes. If 
she had played him a trick, Armand St Just would suffer 
the extreme penalty. 

But no, no ! of course she had not played him false ! 

Fortunately the supper-room was deserted : this 
would make Chauvelin’s task all the easier, when 
presently that unsuspecting enigma would enter it alone. 
No one was here now save Chauvelin himself. 

Stay ! as he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude 
of the room, the cunning agent of the French Govern- 
ment became aware of the peaceful, monotonous breath- 
ing of some one of my Lord Grenville’s guests, wuo, no 
doubt, had supped both wisely and well, and was enjoy- 
ing a quiet sleep, away from the din of the dancing above* 


138 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

Chauvelin looked round once more, and there in the 
comer of a sofa, in the dark angle of the room, his 
mouth open, his eyes shut, the sweet sounds of peaceful 
slumbers proceeding from his nostrils, reclined the 
gorgeously-apparelled, long-limbed husband of the 
cleverest woman in Europe. 

Chauvelin looked at him as he lay there, placid, un- 
conscious, at peace with all the world and himself, after 
the best of suppers, and a smile, that was almost one of 
pity, softened for a moment the hard lines of the French- 
man’s face and the sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes. 

Evidently the slumberer, deep in dreamless sleep, 
would not interfere with Chauvelin’s trap for catching 
that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel. Again he rubbed his 
hands together, and, following the example of Sir Percy 
Blakeney, he too stretched himself out in the corner of 
another sofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave forth 
sounds of peaceful breathing, and . . . waited 1 


CHAPTER XV 


DOUBT 

Marguerite Blakbney had watched the slight sable-clad 
figure of Chauvelin, as he worked his way through the 
ball-room. Then perforce she had had to wait, while 
her nerves tingled with excitement. 

Listlessly she sat in the small, still deserted boudoir, 
looking out through the curtained doorway on the 
dancing couples beyond: looking at them, yet seeing 
nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of naug’it 
save a feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting. 

Her mind conjured up before her the vision o. what 
was, perhaps at this very moment, passing downstairs. 
The half-deserted dining-room, the fateful hour — 
Chauvelin on the watch ! — then, precise to the moment, 
the entrance of a man, he, the Scavlet Pjmpernel, the 
mysterious leader, who to Marguerite had become 
almost unreal, so strange, so weird was this hidden 
identity. 

She wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this 
moment, watching him as he entered ; she knew that her 
woman’s penetration would at once recognise in the 
stranger’s face — whoever he might be — that strong 
individuality which belongs to a leader of men — to a 
hero : to the mighty, high-soaring eagle, whose daring 
wings were becoming entangled in the ferret’s trap. 

Woman-like, she thought of him with unmixed sadness ; 
the irony of that fate seemed so cruel which allowed the 

139 


140 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

fearless lion to succumb to the gnawing of a rat ! Ah 1 
had Armand’s life not been at stake ! . . . 

“ Faith ! your ladyship must have thought me very 
remiss,” said a voice suddenly, close to her elbow. “ I 
had a deal of difficulty in delivering your message, for 
I could not find Blakeney anywhere at first . . 

Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and 
her message to him ; his very name, as spoken by Lord 
Fancourt, sounded strange and unfamiliar to her, so 
completely had she in the last five minutes lived her old 
life in the Rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always 
near her to love and protect her, to guard her from the 
many subtle intrigues which were for ever raging in Paris 
in those days. 

“ I did find him at last,” continued Lord Fancourt, 

* and gave him your message. He said that he would 
giVv orders at once for the horses to be put to.” 

“ Ah I ” she said, still very absently, “ you found my 
husband, und gave him my message ? ” 

“ Yes ; he fc'is in the dining-room fast asleep. I could 
not manage to wake him up at first.” 

“ Thank you very much,” she said mechanically, try- 
ing to collect her thoughts. 

“ Will your ladyship honour me with the contredans* 
until your coach is ready ? ” asked Lord Fancourt. 

“No, I thank you, my lord, but — an you will forgive 
me— I really am too tired, and the heat in the ball-room 
has become oppressive.” 

“ The conservatory is deliciously cool ; let me take 
you there, and then get you something. You seem 
ailing, Lady Blakeney.” 

“ I am only very tired,” she repeated wearily, as she 
allowed Lord Fancourt to lead her, where subdued lights 
and green plants lent coolness to the air. He got her a 


DOUBT 


14X 

chair, into which she sank. This long interval of waiting 
was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and tell 
her the result of his watch ? 

Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely 
heard what he said, and suddenly startled him by 
asking abruptly, — 

“Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the 
dining- room just now besides Sir Percy Blakeney ? ” 

“Only the agent of the French Government, M. 
Chauvelin, equally fast asleep in another corner,” he 
said. “ Why does your ladyship ask ? ” 

“ I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time 
when you were there ? ” 

“ It must have been about five or ten minutes past 
one. ... I wonder what your ladyship is thinking 
about,” he added, for evidently the fair lady’s thoughts 
were very far away, and she had not been listening to his 
intellectual conversation. 

But indeed her thoughts were not very far away : only 
one storey below, in this same house, in the dining-room 
where sat Chauvelin still on the watch. Had he failed ? 
For one instant that possibility rose before her as a 
hope — the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been 
warned by Sir Andrew, and that Chauvelin’s trap had 
failed to catch his bird ; but that hope soon gave way to 
fear. Had he failed ? But then — Armand ! 

Lord Fancourt had given up talking since he found 
that he had no listener. He wanted an opportunity for 
slipping away : for sitting opposite to a lady, however 
fair, who is evidently not heeding the most vigorous 
efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating, 
even to a Cabinet Minister. 

“ Shall I find out if your ladyship’s coach is ready," 
he said at last, tentatively. 


142 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

“ Oh, thank you . . . thank you ... if you would bo 
so kind ... I fear I am but sorry company . . . but 1 
am really tired . . . and, perhaps, would be best alone.* 

She had been longing to be rid of him, for she hoped 
that, like the fox he so resembled, Chauvelin would be 
prowling round, thinking to find her alone. 

But Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvelin did not 
come. Oh ! what had happened ? She felt Armand’s 
fate trembling in the balance . . . she feared — now with 
a deadly fear — that Chauvelin had failed, and that the 
mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel had proved elusive once 
more ; then she knew that she need hope for no pity, no 
mercy, from him. 

He had pronounced his “ Either — or — ” and nothing 
less would content him : he was very spiteful, and would 
affect the belief that she had wilfully misled him, and 
having “ailed to trap the eagle once again, his revengeful 
mind would be content with the humble prey — Arraand ! 

Yet she had done her best ; had strained every nerve 
for Armand’s sake. She could not bear to think that 
all had failed. She could not sit still ; she wanted to go 
and hear the worst at once ; she wondered even that 
Chauvelin had not come yet, to vent his wrath and satire 
upon her. 

Lord Grenville himself came presently to tell her that 
her coach was ready, and that Sir Percy was already 
waiting for her — ribbons in hand. Marguerite said 
“Farewell” to her distinguished host; many of her 
friends stopped her, as she crossed the rooms, to talk to 
her, and exchange pleasant au revoirs. 

The Minister only took final leave of beautiful Lady 
Blakeney on the top of the stairs ; below, on the landing 8 
a veritable army of gallant gentlemen were waiting to 
bid “Good-bye” to the queen of beauty and fashion, 


DOUBT 


143 


whilst outside, under the massive portico, Sir Percy’s 
magnificent bays were impatiently pawing the ground. 

At the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final 
leave of her host, she suddenly saw Chauvelin ; he was 
coming up the stairs slowly, and rubbing his thin hands 
very softly together. 

There was a curious look on his mobile face, partly 
amused and wholly puzzled, and as his keen eyes met 
Marguerite’s they became strangely sarcastic. 

“M. Chauvelin," she said, as he stopped on the top 
of the stairs, bowing elaborately before her, “ my coach 
is outside ; may I claim your arm ? ” 

As gallant as ever, he offered her his arm and led her 
downstairs. The crowd was very great, some of the 
Minister’s guests were departing, others were leaning 
against the banisters watching the throng as it filed up 
and down the wide staircase. 

“Chauvelin," she said at last desperately, “I must 
know what has happened.” 

“What has happened, dear lady?” he said, with 
affected surprise. “Where? When?” 

“You are torturing me, Chauvelin. I have helped 
you to-night . . . surely I have the right to know. 
What happened in the dining-room at one o’clock just 
now ? ” 

She spoke in a *,'nisper, trusting that in the general 
hubbub of the crowd her words would remain unheeded 
by all, save the man at her side. 

“ Quiet and peace reigned supreme, fair lady ; at that 
hour I was asleep in the corner of one sofa and Sir 
Percy Blakeney in another.” 

“ Nobody came into the room at all ? " 

“ Nobody.” 

M Then we have failed, you and I ? . . / 


144 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

“ Yes ! we hare failed — perhaps . . .* 

“ But, Armand ? ” she pleaded. 

“ Ah ! Armand St Just’s chances hang on a thread 
. . . pray heaven, dear lady, that that thread may not 
snap.” 

“Chauvelin, I worked for you, sincerely, earnestly 
. . . remember. . . 

“ I remember my promise,” he said quietly ; “ the day 
that the Scarlet Pimpernel and I meet on French soil, 
St Just will be in the arms of his charming sister.” 

“Which means that a brave man’s blood will be on 
my hands,” she said, with a shudder. 

“ His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the 
present moment you must hope, as I do, that the 
enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel will start for Calais 
to-day — * 

“ I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen.” 

“And that is ? ” 

“That Satan, your master, will have need of you, 
elsewhere, before the sun rises to-day.” 

“You flatter me, citoyenne.” 

She had detained him for a while, midway down the 
stairs, trying to get at the thoughts which lay beyond 
that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelin remained 
urbane, sarcastic, mysterious ; not a line betrayed to the 
poor, anxious woman whether she ^ed fear or whether 
she dared to hope. 

Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. 
Lady Blakeney never stepped from any house into her 
coach, without an escort of fluttering human moths 
around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before she 
finally turned away from Chauvelin, she held out a tiny 
hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal 
which was so essentially her own. 


DOUBT 


145 

"Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin,” she 
pleaded. 

With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny 
hand, which looked so dainty and white through the 
delicately transparent black lace mitten, and kissing the 
tips of the rosy fingers : — 

"Pray heaven that the thread may not snap,” he 
repeated, with his enigmatic smile. 

And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter 
more closely round the candle, and the brilliant throng 
of the jeunesse dor'ee , eagerly attentive to Lady Blakeney’s 
every movement, hid the keen, fox-like face from her 
view. 


i 




CHAPTER XVI 


RICHMOND 

A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cosy 
furs, near Sir Percy Blakeney on the box-seat of his 
magnificent coach, and the four splendid bays had 
thundered down the quiet street. 

The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze 
which fanned Marguerite’s burning cheeks. Soon 
London houses were left behind, and rattling over old 
Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays 
rapidly towards Richmond. 

The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate 
curves, looking like a silver serpent beneath the glittering 
rays of the moon. Long shadows from overhanging 
trees spread occasional deep palls right across the road. 
The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held 
but slightly back by Sir Percy’s strong, unerring hands. 

These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London 
were a source of perpetual delight to Marguerite, and 
she appreciated her husband’s eccentricity keenly, which 
caused him to adopt this mode of taking her home every 
night, to their beautiful home by the river, instead of 
living in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his 
spirited horses along the lonely, moonlit roads, and she 
loved to sit on the box-seat, with the sof* air of an 
English late summer’s night fanning her face after the hot 
atmosphere of a ball or supper-party. The drive was 
146 


RICHMOND 


147 

not a long one — less than an hour, sometimes, when 
the bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy gave them full 
rein. 

To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his 
fingers, and the coach seemed to fly along the road, 
beside the river. As usual, he did not speak to her, 
but stared straight in front of him, the ribbons seeming 
to lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands. Mar- 
guerite looked at him tentatively once or twice; she 
could see his handsome profile, and one lazy eye, with 
its straight fine brow and drooping heavy lid. 

'"he face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, 
and recalled to Marguerite’s aching heart those happy 
days of courtship, before he had become the lazy nin- 
compoop, the effete fop, whose life seemed spent in 
card and supper rooms. 

But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the 
expression of the lazy blue eyes; she could only see 
the outline of the firm chin, the corner of the strong 
mouth, the well-cut massive shape of the forehead; 
truly, nature had meant well by Sir Percy; his faults 
must all be laid at the door of that poor, half-crazy 
mother, and of the distracted heart-broken father, 
neither of whom had cared for the young life, which 
was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps, 
their very carelessness was already beginning to wreck. 

Marguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her 
husband. The moral crisis she had just gone through 
made her feel indulgent towards the faults, the delin- 
quencies, of others. 

How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and 
overmastered by Fate, had been borne in upon her with 
appalling force. Had anyone told her a week ago that 
she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that she would 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

betray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of 
a relentless enemy, she would have laughed the idea to 
scorn. 

Yet she had done these things : anon, perhaps the 
death of that brave man would be at her door, just as 
two years ago the Marquis de St Cyr had perished 
through a thoughtless word of hers ; but in that case 
she was morally innocent — she had meant no serious 
harm — fate merely had stepped in. But this time she 
had done a thing that obviously was base, had done it 
deliberately, for a motive which, perhaps, high moralists 
would not even appreciate. 

And as she felt her husband’s strong arm beside her, 
she also felt how much more he would dislike and 
despise her, if he knew of this night’s work. Thus 
human beings judge of one another, superficially, 
casually, throwing contempt on one another, with but 
little reason, and no charity. She despised her husband 
for his inanities and vulgar, unintellectual occupations ; 
and he, she felt, would despise her still worse, because 
she had not been strong enough to do right for right’s 
sake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates of her 
conscience. 

Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this 
hour in the breezy summer night all too brief; and it 
was with a feeling of keen disappointment, that she 
suddenly realised that the bays had turned into the 
massive gates of her beautiful English home. 

Sir Percy Blakeney’s house on the river has become 
a historic one : palatial in its dimensions, it stands in 
the midst of exquisitely laid -out gardens, with a 
picturesque terrace and frontage to the river. Built in 
Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls look 
eminently picturesque in the midst of a bower of green, 


RICHMOND 


*49 


the beautiful lawn, with its old sun-dial, adding the true 
note of harmony to its foreground. Great secular trees 
lent cool shadows to the grounds, and now, on this 
warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to 
russets and gold, the old garden looked singularly poetic 
and peaceful in the moonlight. 

With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the 
four bays to a standstill immediately in front of the fine 
Elizabethan entrance hall ; in spite of the lateness of 
the hour, an army of grooms seemed to have emerged 
from the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, 
and were standing respectfully round. 

Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Mar- 
guerite to alight. She lingered outside for a moment, 
\ nilst he gave a few orders to one of his men. She 
skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn, looking 
out dreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed 
exquisitely at peace, in comparison with the tumultuous 
emotions she had gone through : she could faintly hear 
the ripple of the river and the occasional soft and ghost- 
like fall of a dead leaf from a tree. 

All else was quiet round her. She had heard the 
horses prancing as they were being led away to their 
distant stables, the hurrying of servants’ feet as they had 
all gone within to rest : the house also was quite still. 
In two separate suites of apartments, just above the 
magnificent reception-rooms, lights were still burning; 
they were her rooms, and his, well divided from each 
other by the whole width of the house, as far apart as 
their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed— 
at that moment she could really not have told why. 

She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. 
Deeply and achingly she was sorry for herself. Never 
had she felt so pitiably lonely, so bitterly in want of 


ISO THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh she 
turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely 
wondering if, after such a night, she could ever find rest 
and sleep. 

Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a 
firm step upon the crisp gravel, and the next moment 
her husband’s figure emerged out of the shadow. He, 
too, had skirted the house, and was wandering along the 
lawn,' towards the river. He still wore his heavy driving 
coat with the numerous lapels and collars he himself 
had set in fashion, but he had thrown it well back, 
burying his hands as was his wont, in the deep pockets 
of his satin breeches : the gorgeous white costume he 
had worn at Lord Grenville’s ball, with its jabot of price- 
less lace, looked strangely ghostly against the da*k 
background of the house. 

He apparently did not notice her, for, after a few 
moments’ pause, he presently turned back towards the 
house, and walked straight up to the terrace. 

H Sir Percy ! ” 

He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace 
steps, but at her voice he started, and paused, then 
looked searchingly into the shadows whence she had 
called to him. 

She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as 
soon as he saw her, he said, with that air of consummate 
gallantry he always wore when speaking to her, — 

“ At your service, Madame ! ” 

But his foot was still on the step, and in his whole 
attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible 
to her, that he wished to go, and had no desire for a 
midnight interview. 

“The air is deliciously cool,” she said, “the moon- 
light peaceful and poetic, and the garden inviting. Will 


RICHMOND 


IS* 

you not stay in it awhile ; the hour is not yet late, or is 
my company so distasteful to you, that you are in a 
hurry to rid yourself of it ? ” 

“ Nay, Madame,” he rejoined placidly, “ but *tis on the 
other foot the shoe happens to be, and I’ll warrant you’ll 
find the midnight air more poetic without my company : 
no doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction the better 
your ladyship will like it.” 

He turned once more to go. 

“I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy,” she said 
hurriedly, and drawing a little closer to him ; “ the 
estrangement, which, alas ! has arisen between us, was 
none of my making, remember.” 

“ Begad ! you must pardon me there, Madame 1 ” he 
protested coldly, “my memory was always of the 
shortest.” 

He looked her straight in the eyes, with that lazy 
nonchalance which had become second nature to him. 
She returned his gaze for a moment, then her eyes 
softened, as she came up quite close to him, to the foot 
of the terrace steps. 

“Of the shortest, Sir Percy? Faith! how it must 
have altered ! Was it three years ago or four that you 
saw me for one hour in Paris, on your way to the East. 
When you came back two years later you had not for- 
gotten me.” 

She looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the 
moonlight, with the fur-cloak sliding off her beautiful 
shoulders, the gold embroidery on her dress shimmering 
around her, her childlike blue eyes turned up fully at 
him. 

He stood for a moment, rigid and still, but for the 
clenching of his hand against the stone balustrade of 
the terrace. 


152 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

“ You desired my presence, Madame,” he said frigidly, 
11 1 take it that it was not with a view to indulging in 
tender reminiscences.” 

His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising : 
his attitude before her, stiff and unbending. Womanly 
decorum would have suggested that Marguerite should 
return coldness for coldness, and should sweep past 
him without another word, only with a curt nod of the 
head : but womanly instinct suggested that she should 
remain — that keen instinct, which makes a beautiful 
woman conscious of her powers long to bring to her 
knees, the one man who pays her no homage. She 
stretched out her hand to him. 

“ Nay, Sir Percy, why not ? the present is not so 
glorious but that I should not wish to dwell a little in 
the past.” 

He bent his tall figure, and taking bold of the ex- 
treme tip of the fingers which she still held out to him, 
he kissed them ceremoniously. 

“ I’ faith, Madame,” he said, “ then you will pardon 
me, if my dull wits cannot accompany you there.” 

Once again he attempted to go, once more her 
voice, sweet childlike, almost tender, called him 
back. 

“ Sir Percy.” 

“ Your servant, Madame.” 

“ Is it possible that love can die ? ” she said with 
sudden, unreasoning vehemence. “ Methought that the 
passion which you once felt for me would outlast the 
span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love, 
Percy . . . which might help you ... to bridge over 
that sad estrangement ? ” 

His massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to 
him, to stiffen still more, the strong mouth hardened, * 


RICHMOND 153 

look of relentless obstinacy crept into the habitually lazy 
blue eyes. 

“ With what object, I pray you, Madame ? ” he asked 
coldly. 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“Yet ’tis simple enough,” he said with sudden bitter- 
ness, which seerped literally to surge through his words, 
though he was making visible efforts to suppress it, “ I 
humbly put the question to you, for my slow wits are 
unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship’s sudden 
new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the 
devilish sport which you played so successfully last 
year ? Do you wish to see me once more a love-sick 
suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have 
the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome 
lap-dog ? ” 

She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment : 
and again she looked straight at him, for it was thus she 
remembered him a year ago. 

“ Percy ! I entreat you 1 ” she whispered, “ can we not 
bury the past ? ” 

“ Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say 
that your desire was to dwell in it.” 

“ Nay ! I spoke not of that past, Percy ! ” she said, 
while a tone of tenderness crept into her voice. “ Rather 
did I speak of the time when you loved me still ! and I 
... oh ! I was vain and frivolous ; your wealth and 
position allured me : I married you, hoping in my heart 
that your great love for me would beget in me a love for 
you . . . but, alas ! . . .” 

The moon had sunk low down behind a bank of 
clouds. In the e&st a soft grey light was beginning to 
chase away the heavy mantle of the night. He could 
only see her graceful outline now, the small queenly 


154 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

head, with its wealth of reddish golden curls, and the 
glittering gems forming the small, star-shaped, red flower 
which she wore as a diadem in her hair. 

“ Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the 
Marquis de St Cyr and all his family perished on the 
guillotine, and the popular rumour reached me that it 
was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send 
them there.” 

“ Nay ! I myself told you the truth of that odious 
tale.” 

“ Not till after it had been recounted to me by 
strangers, with all its horrible details.” 

“ And you believed them then and there,” she said 
with great vehemence, “ without a proof or question — 
you believed that I, whom you vowed you loved more 
than life, whom you professed you worshipped, that 1 
could do a thing so base as these strangers chose to 
recount. You thought I meant to deceive you about ; t 
all — that I ought to have spoken before I married you : 
yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to 
the very morning on which St Cyr went to the guillotine, 
I was straining every nerve, using every influence I pos- 
sessed, to save him and his family. But my pride sealed 
my lips, when your love seemed to perish, as if under the 
knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told 
you how I was duped! Aye! I, whom that same 
popular rumour had endowed with the sharpest w'its in 
France ! I was tricked into doing this thing, by men 
who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, 
and my desire for revenge. Was it unnatural ? ” 

Her voice became choked with tears. She paused 
for a moment or two, trying to regain some sort of com- 
posure. She looked appealingly at him, almost as if he 
were her judge. He had allowed her to speak on in her 


RICHMOND 


155 

own vehement, impassioned way, offering no comment, 
no word of sympathy : and now, while she paused, 
trying to swallow down the hot tears that gushed to hei 
eyes, he waited, impassive and still. The dim, grey 
light of early dawn seemed to make his tall form look taller 
and more rigid. The lazy, good-natured face looked 
strangely altered. Marguerite, excited, as she was, could 
see that the eyes were no longer languid, the mouth no 
longer good-humoured and inane. A curious look oi 
intense passion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping 
lids, the mouth was tightly closed, the lips compressed, 
as if the will alone held that surging passion in check. 

Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with 
all a woman’s fascinating foibles, all a woman’s most 
lovable sins. She knew in a moment that for the past 
few months she had been mistaken : that this man who 
stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her 
musical voice struck upon his ear, loved her, as he had 
loved her a year ago : that his passion might have been 
dormant, but that it was there, as strong, as intense, as 
overwhelming, as when first her lips met his in one long, 
maddening kiss. 

Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she 
meant to win back that conquest which had been hers 
before. Suddenly it seemed to her, that the only happi- 
ness life could ever hold for her again would be in feel- 
ing that man’s kiss once more upon her lips, 

“Listen to the tale, Sir Percy,” she said, and her 
voice now was low, sweet, infinitely tender. “Armand 
was all in all to me ! We had no parents, and brought 
one another up. He was my little father, and I, his 
tiny mother ; we loved one another so. Then one day 
—do you mind me, Sir Percy ? the Marquis de St Cyr 
had my brother Armand thrashed — thrashed by his 


156 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

lacqueys — that brother whom I loved better than all 
the world ! And his offence ? That he, a plebeian, 
had dared to love the daughter of the aristocrat; for 
that he was waylaid and thrashed . . . thrashed like 
a dog within an inch of his life ! Oh, how I suffered ! 
his humiliation had eaten into my very soul! When 
the opportunity occurred, and I was able to take my 
revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that 
proud marquis to trouble and humiliation. He plotted 
with Austria against his own country. Chance gave me 
knowledge of this ; I spoke of it, but I did not know — 
how could I guess ? — they trapped and duped me. When 
I realised what I had done, it was too late.” 

,“It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame,” said Sir 
Percy, after a moment of silence between them, “to 
go back over the past. I have confessed to you that 
my memory is short, but the thought certainly lingered 
in my mind that, at the time of the Marquis’ death, I 
entreated you for an explanation of those same noisome 
popular rumours. It that same memory does not, even 
now, play me a trick, I fancy that you refused me all 
explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliat- 
ing allegiance it was not prepared to give.” 

“I wished to test your love for me, and it did 
not bear the test. You used to tell me that you 
drew the very breath of life but for me, and for love 
of me.” 

“And to probe that love, you demanded that I 
should forfeit mine honour,” he said, whilst gradually 
his impassiveness seemed to leave him, his rigidity to 
relax; “that I should accept without murmur or ques- 
tion, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of 
my mistress. My heart overflowing with love and 
passion, I asked for no explanation — I waited for one, 


RICHMOND 


*57 


not doubting — only hoping. Had you spoken but one 
word, from you I would have accepted any explanation 
and believed it. But you left me without a word, 
beyond a bald confession of the actual horrible facts; 
proudly you returned to your brother’s house, and left 
me alone ... for weeks . . . not knowing, now, in 
whom to believe, since the shrine, which contained my 
one illusion, lay shattered to earth at my feet.” 

She need not complain now that he was cold and 
impassive; his very voice shook with an intensity of 
passion, which he was making superhuman efforts to 
keep in check. 

“Aye! the madness of my pride!” she said sadly. 
“Hardly had I gone, already I had repented. But 
when I returned, I found you, oh, so altered ! wearing 
already that mask of somnolent indifference which 
you have never laid aside until . . . until now.” 

She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was 
wafted against his cheek ; her eyes, glowing with tears, 
maddened him, the music in her voice sent fire through 
his veins. But he would not yield to the magic charm 
of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at 
whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He 
closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that 
sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure, 
round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just 
beginning to hover playfully. 

“ Nay, Madame, it is no mask,” he said icily ; “ I swore 
to you . . . once, that my life was yours. For months 
now it has been your plaything ... it has served its 
purpose.” 

But now she knew that that very coldness was a 
mask. The trouble, the sorrow she had gone through 
last night, suddenly came back to her mind, but no 


158 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this 
man, who loved her, would help her to bear the 
burden. 

“Sir Percy,” she said impulsively, “Heaven knows 
you have been at pains to make the task, which I had 
set to myself, terribly difficult to accomplish. You 
spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it 
that, if you will. I wished to speak to you . . . be- 
cause . . . because I was in trouble . . . and had 
need ... of your sympathy.” 

“ It is yours to command, Madame.” 

“ How cold you are ! ” she sighed. “ Faith 1 I can 
scarce believe that but a few months ago one tear 
in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I 
come to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and 
... and . . .” 

“ I pray you, Madame,” he said, whilst his voice shook 
almost as much as hers, “in what way can I serve 
you ? ” 

“Percy! — Armand is in deadly danger. A lettei 
of his . . . rash, impetuous, as were all his actions, 
and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, has fallen into 
the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly com- 
promised . . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested 
. . . after that the guillotine . . . unless . . . unless 
... oh ! it is horrible 1 ”... she said, with a sudden 
wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came 
rushing back to her mind, “horrible! . . . and you 
do not understand . . . you cannot . . . and I have 
no one to whom I can turn ... for help ... or even 
for sympathy. ...” 

Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, 
her struggles, the awful uncertainty of Armand’s fate 

overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready to fall, and 


RICHMOND 


15 * 

leaning against the stone balustrade, she buried her 
face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. 

At first mention of Armand St Just’s name and of 
the peril in which he stood, Sir Percy’s face had become 
a shade more pale ; and the look of determination and 
obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between 
his eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, 
but watched her, as her delicate frame was shaken with 
sobs, watched her until unconsciously his face softened, 
and what looked almost like tears, seemed to glisten in 
his eyes. 

“And so,” he said with bitter sarcasm, “the murder- 
ous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands 
that fed it? . . . Begad, Madame,” he added very 
gently, as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically, 
“will you dry your tears? ... I never could bear 
to see a pretty woman cry, and I . . .* 

Instinctively, with sudden, overmastering passion, 
at sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched 
out his arms, and the next, would have seized her and 
held her to him, protected from every evil with his very 
life, his very heart’s blood. . . . But pride had the 
better of it in this struggle once again ; he restrained 
himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, 
though still very gently, — 

“Will you not turn to me, Madame? and tell me in 
what way I may have the honour to serve you ? ” 

She made a violent effort to control herself, and 
turning her tear-stained face to him, she once more 
held out her hand, which he kissed with the same 
punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite’s fingers, this 
time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer 
than was absolutely necessary, and this was because 
ebe had felt that his hand trembled perceptibly and 


160 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold as 
marble. 

“ Can you do ought for Armand ? n she said sweetly 
and simply. “You have so much influence at court 
... so many friends . . .” 

“Nay, Madame, should you not rather seek the in- 
fluence of your French friend, M. Chauvelin? His 
extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the Republican 
Government of France. n 

“ I cannot ask him, Percy. ... Oh ! I wish I dared 
to tell you . . . but . . . but ... he has put a price 
on my brother's head, which ...” 

She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage 
then to tell him everything ... all she had done that 
night — how she had suffered and how her hand had 
been forced. But she dared not give way to that im- 
pulse . . . not now, when she was just beginning to feel 
that be still loved her, when she hoped that she could 
win him back. She dared not make another confession 
to him. After all, he might not understand ; he 
might not sympathise with her struggles and tempta- 
tion. His love still dormant might sleep the sleep of 
death. 

Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. 
His whole attitude was one of intense longing — a verit- 
able prayer for that confidence, which her foolish pride 
withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed, 
and said with marked coldness — 

“ Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not 
speak of it . . . As for Armand, I pray you have no 
fear. I pledge you my word that he shall be safe. Now, 
have I your permission to go ? The hour is getting late, 
and . , 

“ You will at least accept my gratitude ? ” she said, aa 


RICHMOND 161 

the drew quite close to him, and speaking with real 
tenderness. 

With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have 
taken her then in his arms, for her eyes were swimming 
in tears, which he longed to kiss away; but she had 
lured him once, just like this, then cast him aside like an 
ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a 
caprice, and he was too proud to lend himself to it once 
again. 

“ It is too soon, Madame ! ” he said quietly ; 11 1 have 
done nothing as yet. The hour is late, and you must be 
fatigued. Your women will be waiting for you upstairs.” 

He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a 
quick sigh of disappointment. His pride and her beauty 
had been in direct conflict, and his pride had remained 
the conqueror. Perhaps, after all, she had been de- 
ceived just now ; what she took to be the light of love 
in his eyes might only have been the passion of pride or, 
who knows, of hatred instead of love. She stood look- 
ing at him for a moment or two longer. He was again 
as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered, 
and he cared naught for her. The grey of dawn was 
gradually yielding to the rosy light of the rising sun. 
Birds began to twitter ; Nature awakened, smiling in 
happy response to the warmth of this glorious October 
morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a 
strong, impassable barrier, built up of pride on both 
sides, which neither of them cared to be the first to 
demolish. 

He had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow, 
as she finally, with another bitter little sigh, began to 
mount the terrace steps. 

The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept 
the dead leaves off the steps, making a faint harmonious 


162 the scarlet pimpernel 


sh — sh — sh as she glided up, with one hand resting on 
the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an 
aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies 
on her head and arms to sparkle. She reached the tall 
glass doors which led into the house. Before entering, 
she paused once again to look at him, hoping against 
hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear 
his voice calling her back. But he had not moved ; his 
massive figure looked the very personification of unbend- 
ing pride, of fierce obstinacy. 

Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and as she would 
not let him see them, she turned quickly within, and ran 
as fast as she could up to her own rooms. 

Had she but turned back then, and looked out once 
more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that 
which would have made her own sufferings seem but 
light and easy to bear — a strong man, overwhelmed with 
his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given 
way at last, obstinacy was gone : the will was powerless. 
He was but a man madly, blindly, passionately in love, 
and as soon as her light footstep had died away within the 
house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in the 
very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places 
where her small foot had trodden, and the stone balus- 
trade there, where her tiny hand had rested last. 


CHAPTER XYII 


FAREWELL 

When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid 
terribly anxious about her. 

“ Your ladyship will be so tired,” said the poor woman, 
whose own eyes were half closed with sleep. “ It is past 
five o’clock.” 

u Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently,” 
said Marguerite, kindly ; “ but you are very tired now, 
so go to bed at once. I’ll get into bed alone.” 

“ But, my lady . . .” 

“ Now, don’t argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me 
a wrap, and leave me alone.” 

Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her 
mistress’s gorgeous ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a 
soft billowy gown. 

“Does your ladyship wish for anything else?” she 
asked, when that was done. 

“ No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go 
out.” 

“ Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady.” 

M Good-night, Louise.” 

When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the 
curtains and threw open the windows. The garden and 
the river beyond were flooded with rosy light. Far away 
to the ea*t, the rays of the rising sun had changed the 
rose intc vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and 
Marguerite looked down upon the terrace where she had 
163 


(64 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

stood a few moments ago trying vainly to win back a 
man’s love, which once had been so wholly hers. 

It was strange that through all her troubles, all her 
anxiety for Armand, she was mostly conscious at the 
present moment of a keen and bitter heartache. 

Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the 
love of a man who had spurned her, who had resisted 
her tenderness, remained cold to her appeals, and had 
not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused 
her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris 
were not all dead and forgotten. 

How strange it all was ! She loved him still. And 
now that she looked back upon the last few months of 
misunderstandings and of loneliness, she realised that 
she had never ceased to love him ; that deep down in 
her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish 
inanities, hi3 empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were 
nothing but a mask; that the real man, strong, pas- 
sionate, wilful, was there still — the man she had loved, 
whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality 
attracted her, since she always felt that behind his 
apparently slow wits there was a certain something, which 
he kept hidden from all the world, and most especially 
from her. 

A woman’s heart is such a complex problem — the 
owner thereof is often most incompetent to find the 
solution of this puzzle. 

Did Marguerite Blakeney, “the cleverest woman in 
Europe,” really love a fool ? Was it love that she had 
felt for him a year ago when she married him ? Was it 
love she felt for him now that she realised that he still 
loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her 
passionate, ardent lover once again ? Nay ! Marguerite 
herself could not have told that. Not at this moment 


FAREWELL 


165 

At anyrate; perhaps her pride had sealed her mind 
against a better understanding of her own heart. But 
this she did know — that she meant to capture that 
obstinate heart back again. That she would conquer 
£ once more . . . and then, that she would never lose 
him. . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve 
it, and cherish it ; for this much was certain, that there 
was no longer any happiness possible for her without 
that one man’s love. 

Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions 
rushed madly through her mind. Absorbed in them, 
she had allowed time to slip by, perhaps, tired out 
with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes 
and sank into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly 
fleeting dreams seemed but the continuation of her 
anxious thoughts — when suddenly she was roused, from 
dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside 
her door. 

Nervously she jumped up and listened : the house 
itself was as still as ever; the footsteps had retreated. 
Through her wide-open windows the brilliant rays of the 
morning sun were flooding her room with light. She 
looked up at the clock ; it was half-past six — too early 
for any of the household to be already astir. 

She certainly must have dropped asleep, quite un- 
consciously. The noise of the footsteps, also of 
hushed, subdued voices had awakened her — what could 
they be ? 

Gently, on tip toe, she crossed the room and opened 
the door to listen ; not a sound — that peculiar stillness 
of the early morning when sleep with all mankind is at 
its heaviest. But the noise had made her nervous, and 
when, suddenly, at her feet, on the very doorstep, she 
saw something white lying there — a letter evidently — 


1 66 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


she hardly dared touch it. It seemed so ghostlike. It 
certainly was not there when she came upstairs ; had 
Louise dropped it ? or was some tantalising spook at 
play, showing her fairy letters where none existed ? 

At last she stooped to pick it up, and, amazed, puzzled 
beyond measure, she saw that the letter was addressed 
to herself in her husband’s large, businesslike-looking 
hand. What could he have to say to her, in the middle 
of the night, which could not be put off until the 
morning ? 

She tore open the envelope and read : — 

“ A most unforeseen circumstance forces me to leave 
for the North immediately, so I beg your ladyship’s 
pardon if I do not avail myself of the honour of bidding 
you good-bye. My business may keep me employed 
for about a week, so I shall not have the privilege of 
being present at your ladyship’s water-party on Wednes- 
day. I remain your ladyship’s most humble and most 
obedient servant, Percy Blakeney.” 

Marguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her 
husband’s slowness of intellect, for she had perforce to 
read the few simple lines over and over again, before she 
could fully grasp their meaning. 

She stood on the landing, turning over and over in her 
hand this curt and mysterious epistle, her mind a blank, 
her nerves strained with agitation and a presentiment 
she could not very well have explained. 

Sir Percy owned considerable property in the North, 
certainly, and he had often before gone there alone and 
stayed away a week at a time ; but it seemed so very 
strange that circumstances should have arisen between 
five and six o’clock in the morning that compelled him 
to start in this extreme hurry. 


FAREWELL 


167 

Vainly she tried to shake off an unaccustomed feeling 
of nervousness : she was trembling from head to foot. 
A wild, unconquerable desire seized her to see her 
husband again, at once, if only he had not already 
started. 

Forgetting the fact that she was only very lightly clad 
in a morning wrap, and that her hair lay loosely about 
her shoulders, she flew down the stairs, right through the 
hall towards the front door. 

It was as usual barred and bolted, for the indoor 
servants were not yet up ; but her keen ears had 
detected the sound of voices and the pawing of a 
horse’s hoof against the flag-stones. 

With nervous, trembling fingers Marguerite undid the 
bolts one by one, bruising her hands, hurting her nails, 
for the locks were heavy and stiff. But she did not 
care ; her whole frame shook with anxiety at the very 
thought that she might be too late ; that he might have 
gone without her seeing him and bidding him “ God- 
speed ! ” 

At last, she had turned the key and thrown open the 
door. Her ears had not deceived her. A groom was 
standing close by holding a couple of horses ; one of 
these was Sultan, Sir Percy’s favourite and swiftest 
horse, saddled ready for a journey. 

The next moment Sir Percy himself appeared round 
the further corner of the house and came quickly 
towards the horses. He had changed his gorgeous ball 
costume, but was as usual irreproachably and richly 
apparelled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jabot and 
ruffles, high top-boots, and riding breeches. 

Marguerite went forward a few steps. He looked 
up and saw her. A slight frown appeared between his 
eyes. 


168 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


“ You are going ? ” she said quickly and feyerishly. 
“ Whither ? ” 

“ As I have had the honour of informing your ladyship, 
urgent, most unexpected business calls me to the North 
this morning,” he said, in his usual cold, drawly manner. 

“ But . . . your guests to-morrow . . .” 

“ I have prayed your ladyship to offer my humble 
excuses to His Royal Highness. You are such a perfect 
hostess, I do not think that I shall be missed.” 

“ But surely you might have waited for your journey 
. . . until after our water-party . . she said, still 
speaking quickly and nervously. “ Surely the business 
is not so urgent . . . and you said nothing about it — 
just now.” 

“ My business, as I had the honour to tell you, 
Madame, is as unexpected as it is urgent. . . . May I 
therefore crave your permission to go. . . . Can I do 
aught for you in town ? ... on my way back ? ” 

“No . . . no . . . thanks . . . nothing. . . . But 
you will be back soon ? ” 

“ Very soon.” 

“ Before the end of the week ? ” 

“ I cannot say.” 

He was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was 
straining every nerve to keep him back for a moment 
or two. 

“ Percy,” she said, “ will you not tell me why you go 
to-day ? Surely I, as your wife, have the right to know. 
You have not been called away to the North. I know 
it. There were no letters, no couriers from there before 
we left for the opera last night, and nothing was waiting 
for you when we returned from the ball. ... You are 
not going to the North, 1 feel convinced. . . • There is 
some mystery . . . and . . .” 


FAREWELL 


169 


** Nay, there is no mystery, Madame,” he replied, with 
a slight tone of impatience. “ My business has to do 
with Armand . . . there ! Now, have I your leave to 
depart ? ” 

“ With Armand ? . . . But you will run no danger ? ” 

“Danger? I? . . . Nay, Madame, your solicitude; 
does me honour. As you say, I have some influence 
my intention is to exert it before it be too late.” 

“ Will you allow me to thank you at least ? ” 

“ Nay, Madame,” he said coldly, “there is no need for 
that. My life is at your service, and I am already more 
than repaid.” 

“ And mine will be at yours, Sir Percy, if you will buv 
accept it, in exchange for what you do for Armand,” she 
said, as, impulsively, she stretched out both her hands 
to him. “There! I will not detain you ... my 
thoughts go with you . . . Farewell ! . . .” 

How lovely she looked in this morning sunlight, with 
her ardent hair streaming around her shoulders. He 
bowed very low and kissed her hand ; she felt the 
burning kiss and her heart thrilled with joy and hope. 

“You will come back? ” she said tenderly. 

“ Very soon ! 99 he replied, looking longingly into her 
blue eyes. 

“And . . . you will remember? . . .** she asked, as 
her eyes, in response to his look, gave him an infinity of 
promise. 

“ I will always remember, Madame, that you have 
honoured me by commanding my services.” 

The words were cold and formal, but they did not 
chill her this time. Her woman’s heart had read his, 
beneath the impassive mask his pride still forced him to 
wear. 

He bowed to her again, then begged her leave to 


170 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

depart. She stood on one side whilst he jumped on to 
Sultan’s back, then, as he galloped out of the gates, she 
waved him a final “ Adieu.” 

A bend in the road soon hid him from view ; his 
confidential groom had some difficulty in keeping pace 
with him, for Sultan flew along in response to his 
master’s excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was 
almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went 
back to her room, for suddenly, like a tired child, she 
felt quite sleepy. 

Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, 
and, though it still ached with undefined longing, a 
vague and delicious hope soothed it as with a balm. 

She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man 
who had just ridden away, bent on helping her brother, 
inspired her with complete confidence in his strength 
and m his power. She marvelled at herself for having 
ever looked upon him as an inane fool ; of course, that 
was a mask worn to hide the bitter wound she had dealt 
to his faith and to his love. His passion would have 
overmastered him, and he would not let her see how 
much he still cared and how deeply he suffered. 

But now all would be well : she would crush her own 
pride, humble it before him, tell him everything, trust 
him in everything ; and those happy days would come 
back, when they used to wander off together in the 
forests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little — for he 
was always a silent man — but when she felt that against 
that strong heart she would always find rest and 
happiness. 

The more she thought of the events of the past night, 
the less fear had she of Chauvelin and his schemes. He 
had failed to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pim- 
pernel, of that she felt sure. Both Lord Fancourt and 


FAREWELL 171 

Chauvelin himself had assured her that no one had 
been in the dining-room at one o’clock except the 
Frenchman himself and Percy — Yes! — Percy! she 
might have asked him, had she thought of it ! 
Anyway, she had no fears that the unknown and 
brave hero would fall in Chauvelin’s trap; his death 
at anyrate would not be at her door. 

Armand certainly was still in danger, but Percy had 
pledged his word that Armand would be safe, and some- 
how, as Marguerite had seen him riding away, the 
possibility that he could fail in whatever he undertook 
never even remotely crossed her mind. When Armand 
was safely over in England she would not allow him to 
go back to France. 

She felt almost happy now, and, drawing the curtains 
closely together again to shut out the piercing sun, she 
went to bed at last, laid her head upon the pillow, and, 
like a wearied child, soon fell into a peaceful and 
dreamless sleep. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE 

The day was well advanced when Marguerite woke, 
refreshed by her long sleep. Louise had brought her 
some fresh milk and a dish of fruit, and she partook of 
this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite. 

Thoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind as she^ 
munched her grapes; most of them went galloping 
away after the tall, erect figure of her husband, whom 
she had watched riding out of sight more than five 
hours ago. 

In answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back 
the news that the groom had come home with Sultan, 
having left Sir Percy in London. The groom thought 
that his master was about to get on board his schooner, 
which was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir 
Percy had ridden thus far, had then met Briggs, the 
skipper of the Day Dream , and had sent the groom back 
to Richmond with Sultan and the empty saddle. 

This news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where 
could Sir Percy be going just now in the Day Dream ? 
On Armand’s behalf, he had said. Well ! Sir Percy 
had influential friends everywhere. Perhaps he was 
going to Greenwich, or . . . but Marguerite ceased to 
conjecture ; all would be explained anon : he said that 
he would come back, and that he would remember. 

A long, idle day lay before Marguerite. She was ex- 
pecting the visit of her old school fellow, little Suzanne 
172 


THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE 173 

de Tournay. With all the merry mischief at her 
command, she had tendered her request for Suzanne’s 
company to the Comtesse in the presence of the Prince 
of Wales last night. His Royal Highness had loudly 
applauded the notion, and declared that he would give 
himself the pleasure of calling on the two ladies in the 
course of the afternoon. The Comtesse had not dared 
to refuse, and then and there was entrapped into a 
promise to send little Suzanne to spend a long and 
happy day at Richmond with her friend. 

Marguerite expected her eagerly; she longed for a 
chat about old schooldays with the child ; she felt that 
she would prefer Suzanne’s company to that of anyone 
else, and together they would roam through the fine old 
garden and rich deer park, or stroll along the river. 

But Suzanne had not come yet, and Marguerite being 
dressed, prepared to go downstairs. She looked quite a 
girl this morning in her simple muslin frock, with a 
broad blue sash round her slim waist, and the dainty 
cross-over fichu into which, at her bosom, she had fastened 
a few late crimson roses. 

She crossed the landing outside her own suite of 
apartments, and stood still for a moment at the head of 
the fine oak staircase, which led to the lower floor. On 
her left were her husband’s apartments, a suite of rooms 
which she practically never entered. 

They consisted of bedroom, dressing and reception- 
room, and, "at the extreme end of the landing, of a small 
study, which, when Sir Percy did not use it, was always 
kept locked. His own special and confidential valet, 
Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever 
allowed to go inside. My lady had never cared to do 
so, and the other servants had, of course, not dared to 
break this hard-and-fast rule. 


174 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

Marguerite had often, with that good-natured con< 
tempt which she had recently adopted towards her 
husband, chaffed him about this secrecy which sur- 
rounded his private study. Laughingly she had always 
declared that he strictly excluded all prying eyes from 
his sanctum for fear they should detect how very little 
c * study ” went on within its four walls : a comfortable 
arm-chair for Sir Percy’s sweet slumbers was, no doubt, 
its most conspicuous piece of furniture. 

Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October 
morning as she glanced along the corridor. Frank 
was evidently busy with his master’s rooms, for most 
of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst 
the others. 

A sudden, burning, childish curiosity seized her to 
have a peep at Sir Percy’s sanctum. The restriction, of 
course, did not apply to her, and Frank would, of 
course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that 
the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, 
that she might have that one quick peep in secret, and 
unmolested. 

Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like 
Blue Beard’s wife, trembling half with excitement and 
wonder, she paused a moment on the threshold, 
strangely perturbed and irresolute. 

The door was ajar, and she could not see anything 
within. She pushed it open tentatively : there was no 
sound : Frank was evidently not there, and she walked 
boldly in. 

At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of 
everything around her : the dark and heavy hangings, 
the massive oak furniture, the one or two maps on the 
wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about 
town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of 


THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE 175 

fashion, that was the outward representation of Sir 
Percy Blakeney. 

There was no sign here, at anyrate, of hurried 
departure. Everything was in its place, not a scrap of 
paper littered the floor, not a cupboard or drawer was 
left open. The curtains were drawn aside, and 
through the open window the fresh morning air was 
streaming in. 

Facing the window, and well into the centre of the 
room, stood a ponderous business-like desk, which 
looked as if it had seen much service. On the wall 
to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floor 
to ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a 
woman, magnificently framed, exquisitely painted, and 
signed with the name of Boucher. It was Percy’s 
mother. 

Marguerite knew very little about her, except that 
she had died abroad, ailing in body as well as in mind, 
when Percy was still a lad. She must have been a very 
beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and 
as Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but 
be struck by the extraordinary resemblance which must 
have existed between mother and son. There was the 
same low, square forehead, crowned with thick, fair 
hair, smooth and heavy ; the same deep-set, somewhat 
lazy blue eyes, beneath firmly marked, straight brows ; 
and in those eyes there was the same intensity behind 
that apparent laziness, the same latent passion which 
used to light up Percy’s face in the olden days before 
his marriage, and which Marguerite had again noted, 
last night at dawn, when she had come quite close to 
him, and had allowed a note of tenderness to creep 
into her voice. 

Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her : 


176 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

after that she turned and looked again at the ponderous 
desk. It was covered with a mass of papers, all neatly 
tied and docketed, which looked like accounts and 
receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never 
before struck Marguerite — nor had she, alas ! found it 
worth while to inquire — as to how Sir Percy, whom all 
the world had credited with a total lack of brains, ad- 
ministered the vast fortune which his father left had him. 

Since she had entered this neat, orderly room, she 
had been taken so much by surprise, that this obvious 
proof of her husband’s strong business capacities did 
not cause her more than a passing thought of wonder. 
But it also strengthened her in the now certain know- 
ledge that, with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, 
and foolish talk, he was not only wearing a mask, but 
was playing a deliberate and studied part. 

Marguerite wondered, again. Why should he take all 
this trouble? Why should he — who was obviously a 
serious, earnest man — wish to appear before his fellow- 
men as an empty-headed nincompoop ? 

He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who 
held him in contempt . . . but surely such an object 
could have been gained at less sacrifice, and with far 
less trouble than constant incessant acting of an un- 
natural part. 

She looked round her quite aimlessly now : she was 
horribly puzzled, and a nameless dread, before all this 
strange, unaccountable mystery, had begun to seize 
upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly 
in this severe and dark room. There were no pictures 
on the wall, save the fine Boucher portrait, only a 
couple of maps, both of parts of France, one of the 
North coast and the other of the environs of Paris. 
What did Sir Percy want with those, she wondered. 


THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE 1 77 

Her head began to ache, she turned away from this 
strange Blue Beard’s chamber, which she had entered, 
and which she did not understand. She did not wish 
Frank to find her here, and with a last look round, she 
once more turned to the door. As she did so, her foot 
knocked against a small object, which had apparently 
been lying close to the desk, on the carpet, and which 
now went rolling, right across* the room. 

She stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold 
ring, with a flat shield, on which was engraved a small 
device. 

Marguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then 
studied the engraving on the shield. It represented a 
small star-shaped flower, of a shape she had seen so 
distinctly twice before : once at the opera, and oecs at 
Lord Grenville’s ball. 


< 


CHAPTER XiX 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept 
into Marguerite’s mind, she could not herself afterwards 
have said. With the ring tightly clutched in her hand, 
she had run out of the room, down the stairs, and 
out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone 
with the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could 
look again at the ring, and study that device more 
closely. 

Stupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade 
of ar overhanging sycamore, she was looking at the 
plain gold shield, with the star -shaped little flower 
engraved upon it. 

Bah ! It was ridiculous ! she was dreaming 1 her 
nerves were overwrought, and she saw signs and 
mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had not 
everybody about town recently made a point of affecting 
the device of that mysterious and heroic Scarlet 
Pimpernel ? 

Did she not herself wear it embroidered on her 
gowns ? set in gems and enamel in her hair ? What 
was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy should have 
chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might 
easily have done that . . . yes . . . quite easily . . , 
and . . . besides . . . what connection could there be 
between her exquisite dandy of a husband, with his fine 
clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotte* 
178 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 179 

who rescued French victims from beneath the very 
eyes of the leaders of a bloodthirsty revolution ? 

Her thoughts were in a whirl — her mind a blank . . . 
She did not see anything that was going on around her, 
and was quite startled when a fresh young voice called 
to her across the garden. 

“ Chkrie / — chcrie l where are you ? ” and little Suzanne, 
fresh as a rosebud, with eyes dancing with glee, and 
brown curls fluttering in the soft morning breeze, came 
running across the lawn. 

“ They told me you were in the garden,” she went on 
prattling merrily, and throwing herself with pretty, girlish 
impulse into Marguerite’s arms, “so I ran out to give 
you a surprise. You did not expect me quite so soon, 
did you, my darling little Margot cherie 1 ” 

Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring in the 
folds of her kerchief, tried to respond gaily and un- 
concernedly to the young girl’s impulsiveness. 

“Indeed, sweet one,” she said with a smile, “it is 
delightful to have you all to myself, and for a nice whole 
long day. . . . You won’t be bored ? ” 

“ Oh ! bored ! Margot, how can you say such a wicked 
thing. Why ! when we were in the dear old convent 
together, we were always happy when we were allowed 
to be alone together.” 

“And to talk secrets.” 

The two young girls had linked their arms in one 
another’s and began wandering round the garden. 

“ Oh ! how lovely your home is, Margot, darling,” 
said little Suzanne, enthusiastically, “and how happy you 
must be ! ” 

“Aye, indeed! I ought to be happy — oughtn’t I, 
iweet one ? ” said Marguerite, with a wistful little sigh. 

“How sadly you say it, cherie. . . . Ah, well, I 


1 8 © THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


suppose now that you are a married woman you won't 
care to talk secrets with me any longer. Oh ! what lot* 
and lots of secrets we used to have at school ! Do you 
remember? — some we did not even confide to Sister 
Theresa of the Holy Angela — though she was such a 
dear.” 

“And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little 
one ? ” said Marguerite, merrily, “ which you are forth- 
with going to confide to me. Nay, you need not blush, 
cherie ,” she added, as she saw Suzanne’s pretty little 
face crimson with blushes. “ Faith, there’s naught to 
be ashamed of! He is a noble and a true man, and 
one to be proud of as a lover, and ... as a husband.” 

“ Indeed, cherte, I am not ashamed,” rejoined Suzanne, 
softly ; “ and it makes me very, very proud to hear you 
speak so well of him. I think maman will consent,” 
she added thoughtfully, “and I shall be — oh ! so happy 
— but, of course, nothing is to be thought of until papa 
is safe. . . .” 

Marguerite started. Suzanne’s father ! the Comte de 
Tournay ! — one of those whose life would be jeopardised 
if Chauvelin succeeded in establishing the identity of the 
Scarlet Pimpernel. 

She had understood all along from the Comtesse, and 
also from one or two of the members of the league, that 
their mysterious leader had pledged his honour to bring 
the fugitive Comte de Tournay safely out of France. 
Whilst little Suzanne — unconscious of all — save her own 
all-important little secret, went prattling on, Marguerite’s 
thoughts went back to the events of the past night. 

Armand’s peril, Chauvelin’s threat, his cruel “ Either 
— or — ” which she had accepted. 

And then her own work in the matter, which should 
have culminated at one o’clock in Lord Grenville’* 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 181 


dining-room, when the relentless agent of the French 
Government would finally learn who was this mysterious 
Scarlet Pimpernel, who so openly defied an army of spies 
and placed himself so boldly, and for mere sport, on the 
side of the enemies of France. 

Since then she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. 
She had concluded that he had failed, and yet, she had 
not felt anxious about Armand, because her husband 
had promised her that Armand would be safe. 

But now, suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along, 
an awful horror came upon her for what she had done. 
Chauvelin had told her nothing, it is true; but she 
remembered how sarcastic and evil he looked when she 
took final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered 
something then ? had he already laid his plans for catch- 
ing the daring plotter, red-handed, in France, and sending 
him to the guillotine without compunction or delay. 

Marguerite turned sick with horror, and her hand 
convulsively clutched the ring in her dress. 

“You are not listening, cherie ,” said Suzanne, re- 
proachfully, as she paused in her long, highly interesting 
narrative. 

“Yes, yes, darling — indeed I am,” said Marguerite 
with an effort, forcing herself to smile. “ I love to hear 
you talking . . . and your happiness makes me so very 
glad. . . . Have no fear, we will manage to propitiate 
maman. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is a noble English 
gentleman ; he has money and position, the Comtesse 
will not refuse her consent. . . . But . . . now, little 
one . . . tell me . . . what is the latest news about 
your father ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Suzanne, with mad glee, “ the best we 
could possibly hear. My Lord Hastings came to see 
maman early this morning. He said that all is now well 


182 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


with dear papa, and we may safely expect him here in 
England in less than four days.” 

“Yes,” said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were 
fastened on Suzanne’s lips, as she continued merrily : 

“Oh, we have no fear now ! You don’t know, cherie , 
that that great and noble Scarlet Pimpernel himself, has 
gone to save papa. He has gone, cherie . . . actually 
gone . . .” added Suzanne excitedly. “He was in 
London this morning; he will be in Calais, perhaps, 
to-morrow . . . where he will meet papa . . . and then 
. . . and then . . .” 

The blow had fallen. She had expected it all along, 
though she had tried for the last half-hour to delude 
herself and to cheat her fears. He had gone to Calais, 
had been in London this morning . . . he . . . the 
Scarlet Pimpernel . . . Percy Blakeney . . . her husband 
. . . whom she had betrayed last night to Chauvelin. . . . 

Percy . . . Percy . . . her husband . . . the Scarlet 
Pimpernel. ... Oh I how could she have been so blind ? 
She understood it now — albat once . . . that part he 
played — the mask he wore ... in order to throw dust 
in everybody’s eyes. 

And all for sheer sport and devilry of course ! — saving 
men, women and children from death, as other men 
destroy and kill animals for the excitement, the love of 
the thing. The idle, rich man wanted some aim in life 
— he, and the few young bucks he enrolled under his 
banner, had amused themselves for months in risking 
their lives for the sake of an innocent few. 

Perhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first 
married ; and then the story of the Marquis de St Cyr 
had come to his ears, and he had suddenly turned from 
her, thinking, no doubt, that she might some day betray 
him and his comrades, who had sworn to follow him : 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 183 

and so he had tricked her, as he tricked all others, 
whilst hundreds now owed their lives to him, and many 
families owed him both life and happiness. 

The mask of the inane fop had been a good one, and 
the part consummately well played. No wonder that 
Chauvelin’s spies had failed to detect, in the apparently 
brainless nincompoop, the man whose reckless daring 
and resourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French 
spies, both in France and in England. Even last night 
when Chauvelin went to Lord Grenville’s dining-room 
to seek that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, he only saw that 
inane Sir Percy Blakeney fast asleep in a corner of the 
sofa. 

Had his astute mind guessed the secret, then ? Here 
lay the whole awful, horrible, amazing puzzle. In be- 
traying a nameless stranger to his fate in order to save 
her brother, had Marguerite Blakeney sent her husband 
to his death ? 

No ! no ! no ! a thousand times no ! Surely Fate could 
not deal a blow like that: Nature itself would rise in 
revolt : her hand, when it held that tiny scrap of paper 
last night, would surely have been struck numb ere it 
committed a deed so appalling and so terrible. 

“ But what is it, chcrie f ” said little Suzanne, now 
genuinely alarmed, for Marguerite’s colour had become 
dull and ashen. “ Are you ill, Marguerite ? What is 
it?” 

“Nothing, nothing, child,” she murmured, as in a 
dream. “Wait a moment ... let me think . . . 
think ! . . . You said . . . the Scarlet Pimpernel had 
gone to-day. . . . ? ” 

“ Marguerite, ckkrie^ what is it ? You frighten 

__ _ » 

me. • • . 

14 It is nothing, child, I tell you . . . nothing. ... I 


184 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

must be alone a minute — and — dear one ... I may 
have to curtail our time together to-day. ... I may 
have to go away — you’ll understand ? ” 

“ I understand that something has happened, chirit , 
and that you want to be alone. I won’t be a hindrance 
to you. Don’t think of me. My maid, Lucile, has not 
yet gone ... we will go back together . . . don’t think 
of me.” 

She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. 
Child as she was, she felt the poignancy of her friend’s 
grief, and with the infinite tact of her girlish tenderness, 
she did not try to pry into it, but was ready to efface 
herself. 

She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked 
sadly back across the lawn. Marguerite did not move, 
she remained there, thinking . . . wondering what was 
to be done. 

Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace 
steps, a groom came running round the house towards 
his mistress. He carried a sealed letter in his hand. 
Suzanne instinctively turned back; her heart told her 
that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend, 
and she felt that her poor Margot was not in a fit state 
to bear any more. 

The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then 
he handed her the sealed letter. 

“ What is that ? ” asked Marguerite. 

“ Just come by runner, my lady.” 

Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned 
it over in her trembling fingers. 

“ Who sent it ? ” she said. 

“ The runner said, my lady,” replied the groom, “ that 
his orders were to deliver this, and that your ladyship 
would understand from whom it came.” 


"1 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 185 

Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her 
Instinct had told her what it contained, and her eyes 
only glanced at it mechanically. 

It was a letter written by Armand St Just to Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes — the letter which Chauvelin’s spies had 
stolen at “The Fisherman’s Rest,” and which Chauvelin 
had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience 

Now he had kept his word — he had sent her back St 
Just’s compromising letter ... for he was on the track 
of the Scarlet Pimpernel. 

Marguerite’s senses reeled, her very soul seemed to 
be leaving her body ; she tottered, and would have fallen 
but for Suzanne’s arm round her waist. With super- 
human effort she regained control over herself — there 
was yet much to be done. 

“Bring that runner here to me,” she said to the 
servant, with much calm. “ He has not gone ? ” 

“ No, my lady.” 

The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne. 

“ And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get 
ready. I fear I must send you home, child. And — 
stay, tell one of the maids to prepare a travelling dress 
and cloak for me.” 

Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite 
tenderly, and obeyed without a word ; the child was over- 
awed by the terrible, nameless misery in her friend’s face. 

A minute later the groom returned, followed by the 
runner who had brought the letter. 

“ Who gave you this packet ? ” asked Marguerite. 

“A gentleman, my lady,” replied the man, “at ‘The 
Rose and Thistle ’ inn opposite Charing Cross. He 
said you would understand.” 

“At ‘The Rose and Thistle’? What was he 
doing ? ” 


1 16 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


" He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which 
he had ordered.” 

“ The coach ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. 1 
understood from his man that he was posting straight to 
Dover.” 

“ That’s enough. You may go.” Then she turned 
to the groom : “ My coach and the four swiftest horse3 
in the stables, to be ready at once.” 

The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey. 
Marguerite remained standing for a moment on the lawn 
quite alone. Her graceful figure was as rigid as a statue, 
her eyes were fixed, her hands were tightly clasped 
across her breast ; her lips moved as they murmured 
with pathetic heart-breaking persistence, — 

“ What’s to be done ? What’s to be done ? Where 
to find him ? — Oh, God ! grant me light.” 

But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. 

She had done — unwittingly — an awful and terrible 
thing — the very worst crime, in her eyes, that woman 
ever committed — she saw it in all its horror. Her very 
blindness in not having guessed her husband’s secret 
seemed now to her another deadly sin. She ought to 
have known ! she ought to have known ! 

How could she imagine that a man who could love 
with so much intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her 
from the first ? — how could such a man be the brainless 
idiot he chose to appear ? She, at least, ought to have 
known that he was wearing a mask, and having found 
that out, she should have torn it from his face, whenever 
they were alone together. 

Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily 
crushed by her own pride; and she, too, had worn a 
mask in assuming a contempt for him, whilst, as a matter 
©f fact, she completely misunderstood him. 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 187 

But there was no time now to go over the past. By 
her own blindness she had sinned ; now she must repay, 
not by empty remoise, but by prompt and useful action. 

Percy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the 
fact that his most relentless enemy was on his heels. 
He had set sail early that morning from London Bridge. 
Provided he had a favourable wind, he would no doubt 
be in France within twenty-four hours; no doubt he had 
reckoned on the wind and chosen this route. 

Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover, 
charter a vessel there, and undoubtedly reach Calais 
much about the same time. Once in Calais, Percy would 
meet all those who were eagerly waiting for the noble 
and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue 
them from horrible and unmerited death. With Chau- 
velin’s eyes now fixed upon his every movement, Percy 
would thus not only be endangering his own life, but 
that of Suzanne’s father, the old Comte de Tournay, and 
of those other fugitives who were waiting for him and 
trusting in him. There was also Armand, who had gone 
to meet de Tournay, secure in the knowledge that the 
Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety. 

All these lives and that of her husband, lay in 
Marguerite’s hands ; these she must save, if human 
pluck and ingenuity were equal to the task. 

Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. 
Once in Calais she would not know where to find her 
husband, whilst Chauvelin, in stealing the papers at 
Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary. Above every- 
thing, she wished to warn Percy. 

She knew enough about him by now to understand 
that he would never abandon those who trusted in him, 
that he would not turn back from danger, and leave the 
Comte de Tournay to fall into the bloodthirsty hands 
that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he might 


188 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


form new plans, be more wary, more prudent. Un- 
consciously, he might fall into a cunning trap, but — once 
warned — he might yet succeed. 

And if he failed — if indeed Fate, and Chauvelin, with 
all the resources at his command, proved too strong for 
the daring plotter after all — then at least she would be 
there by his side, to comfort, love and cherish, to cheat 
death perhaps at the last by making it seem sweet, if 
they died both together, locked in each others arms, 
with the supreme happiness of knowing that passion had 
responded to passion, and that all misunderstandings 
were at an end. 

Her whole body stiffened as with a great and firm 
resolution. This she meant to do, if God gave her wits 
and strength. Her eyes lost their fixed look ; they 
glowed with inward fire at the thought of meeting him 
again so soon, in the very midst of most deadly perils ; 
they sparkled with the joy of sharing these dangers with 
him — of helping him perhaps — of being with him at the 
last — if she failed. 

The childlike sweet face had become hard and set, 
the curved mouth was closed tightly over her clenched 
teeth. She meant to do or die, with him and for his 
sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will and unbend- 
ing resolution, appeared between the two straight brows ; 
already her plans were formed. She would go and find 
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes first; he was Percy’s best friend, 
and Marguerite remembered with a thrill, with what 
blind enthusiasm the young man always spoke of his 
mysterious leader. 

He would help her where she needed help ; her coach 
was ready. A change of raiment, and a farewell to little 
Suzanne, and she could be on her way. 

Without haste, but without hesitation, she walked 
quietly into the house. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE FRIEND 

Less than half an hour later, Marguerite, buried in 
thoughts, sat inside her coach, which was bearing her 
swiftly to London. 

She had taken an affectionate farewell of little 
Suzanne, and seen the child safely started with her 
maid, and in her own coach, back to town. She had 
sent one courier with a respectful letter of excuse to His 
Royal Highness, begging for a postponement of the 
august visit on account of pressing and urgent business, 
and another on ahead to bespeak a fresh relay of horses 
at Faversham. 

Then she had changed her muslin frock for a dark 
travelling costume and mantle, had provided herself 
with money — which her husband’s lavishness always 
placed fully at her disposal — and had started on her 
way. 

She did not attempt to delude herself with any vain 
and futile hopes ; the safety of her brother Armand was 
to have been conditional on the imminent capture of the 
Scarlet Pimpernel. As Chauvelin had sent her back 
Armand’s compromising letter, there was no doubt that 
he was quite satisfied in his own mind that Percy 
Blakeney was the man, whose death he had sworn to 
bring about. 

No ! there was no room for any fond delusions ! 
Percy, the husband whom she loved with all the ardour 
which her admiration for his bravery had kindled, wai 
i8g 


190 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

in immediate, deadly peril, through her hand. She had 
betrayed him to his enemy — unwittingly ’tis true — but 
she had betrayed him, and if Chauvelin succeeded in 
trapping him, who so far was unaware of his danger, 
then his death would be at her door. His death ! when 
with her very heart’s blood, she would have defended 
him and given willingly her life for his. 

She had ordered her coach to drive her to the 
“ Crown ” inn ; once there, she told her coachman to 
give the horses food and rest. Then she ordered a 
chair, and had herself carried to the house in Pall Mall 
where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes lived. 

Among all Percy’s friends, who were enrolled under 
his daring banner, she felt that she would prefer to 
confide in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He had always been 
her friend, and now his love for little Suzanne had 
brought him closer to her still. Had he been away 
from home, gone on the mad errand with Percy, per- 
haps, then she would have called on Lord Hastings or 
Lord Tony — for she wanted the help of one of these 
young men, or she would be indeed powerless to save 
her husband. 

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, however, was at home, and his 
servant introduced her ladyship immediately. She went 
upstairs to the young man’s comfortable bachelor’s 
chambers, and was shown into a small, though luxuri- 
ously furnished, dining-room. A moment or two later 
Sir Andrew himself appeared. 

He had evidently been much startled when he heard 
who his lady visitor was, for he looked anxiously — even 
suspiciously — at Marguerite, whilst performing the 
elaborate bows before her, which the rigid etiquette 
of the time demanded. 

Marguerite had laid aside every vestige of nervous- 


THE FRIEND 


191 

nes® ; she was perfectly calm, and having returned 
the young man’s elaborate salute, she began very 
calmly, — 

“ Sir Andrew, I have no desire to waste valuable time 
in much talk. You must take certain things I am going 
to tell you for granted. These will be of no importance. 
What is important is, that your leader and comrade, the 
Scarlet Pimpernel . . . my husband . . . Percy Blakeney 
. . . is in deadly peril.” 

Had she had the remotest doubt of the correctness 
of her deductions, she would have had them confirmed 
now, for Sir Andrew, completely taken by surprise, had 
grown very pale, and was quite incapable of making 
the slightest attempt at clever parrying. 

“ No matter how I know this, Sir Andrew,” she con- 
tinued quietly ; “ thank God that I do, and that perhaps 
it is not too late to save him. Unfortunately, I cannot 
do this quite alone, and therefore have come to you for 
help.” 

“ Lady Blakeney,” said the young man, trying to 
recover himself, “I . . .” 

“ Will you hear me first?” she interrupted, “this is how 
the matter stands. When the agent of the French 
Government stole your papers that night in Dover, he 
found amongst them certain plans, which you or your 
leader meant to carry out for the rescue of the Comte 
de Tournay and others. The Scarlet Pimpernel — Percy, 
my husband — has gone on this errand himself to-day. 
Chauvelin knows that the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy 
Blakeney are one and the same person. He will follow 
him to Calais, and there will lay hands on him. You 
know as well as I do the fate that awaits him at the 
hands of the Revolutionary Government of France. No 
interference from England — from King George himself — 


192 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

would save him. Robespierre and his gang would see 
to it that the interference came too late. But not only 
that, the much-trusted leader will also have been 
unconsciously the means of revealing the hiding-place 
of the Comte de Tournay and of all those who, even now, 
are placing their hopes in him.” 

She had spoken quietly, dispassionately, and with 
firm, unbending resolution. Her purpose was to make 
that young man trust and help her, for she could do 
nothing without him. 

“I do not understand,” he repeated, trying to gain 
time, to think what was best to be done. 

“Aye! but I think you do, Sir Andrew. You must 
know that I am speaking the truth. Look these facts 
straight in the face. Percy has sailed for Calais, I 
presume for some lonely part of the coast, and Chauvelin 
is on his track. Ht has posted for Dover, and will 
cross the Channel probably to-night. What do you 
think will happen ? ” 

The young man was silent. 

“ Percy will arrive at his destination : unconscious o f 
being followed he will seek out de Tournay and the 
others — among these is Armand St Just, my brother — 
he will seek them out, one after another, probably, not 
knowing that the sharpest eyes in the world are watching 
his every movement. When he has thus unconsciously 
betrayed those who blindly trust in him, when nothing 
can be gained from him, and he is ready to come back 
to England, with those whom he has gone so bravely to 
save, the doors of the trap will close upon him, and he 
will be sent to end his noble life upon the guillotine.” 

Still Sir Andrew was silent. 

“You do not trust me,” she said passionately. “Oh, 
God! cannot you sec that 1 am in deadly earnest? 


THE FRIEND 


193 


Man, man,” she added, while, with her tiny hands she 
seized the young man suddenly by the shoulders, forcing 
him to look straight at her, “ tell me, do I look like that 
vilest thing on earth — a woman who would betray her 
own husband ? ” 

“God forbid, Lady Blakeney,” said the young man 
at last, “that I should attribute such evil motives to you, 
but . . 

“But what? . . . tell me. . . . Quick, man! . . . 
the very seconds are precious ! ” 

“Will you tell me,” he asked resolutely, and looking 
searchingly into her blue eyes, “ whose hand helped to 
guide M. Chauvelin to the knowledge which you say he 
possesses ? ” 

“ Mine,” she said quietly, “ I own it — I will not lie to 
you, for I wish you to trust me absolutely. But I had 
no idea — how could I have ? — of the identity of the Scarlet 
Pimpernel . . . and my brother’s safety was to be my 
prize if I succeeded.” 

“ In helping Chauvelin to track the Scarlet Pimpernel?” 

She nodded. 

“It is no use telling you how he forced my hand. 
Armand is more than a brother to me, and . . . and 
. . . how could I guess? . . . But we waste time, 
Sir Andrew . . . every second is precious ... in the 
name of God! . . my husband is in peril . . . your 
friend! — your comrade! — Help me to save him.” 

Sir Andrew felt his position to be a very awkward 
one. The oath he had taken before his leader and 
comrade was one of obedience and secrecy; and yet 
the beautiful woman, who was asking him to trust her, 
was undoubtedly in earnest ; his friend and leader was 
equally undoubtedly in imminent danger and . . . 

“ Lady Blakeney,” he said at last, “ God knows you 


194 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

have perplexed me, so that I do not know which way 
my duty lies. Tell me what you wish me to do. There 
are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for the 
Scarlet Pimpernel if he is in danger.” 

“There is no need for lives just now, my friend,” she 
said drily; “my wits and four swift horses will serve 
the necessary purpose. But I must know where to find 
him. See,” she added, while her eyes filled with tears, 
“ I have humbled myself before you, I have owned my 
fault to you ; shall I also confess my weakness ? — My 
husband and I have been estranged, because he dicLnot 
trust me, and because I was too blind to understand. 
You must confess that the bandage which he put over 
my eyes was a very thick one. Is it small wonder that 
I did not see through it? But last night, after I led 
him unwittingly into such deadly peril, it suddenly fell 
from my eyes. If you will not help me, Sir Andrew, I 
would still strive to save my husband, I would still exert 
every faculty I possess for his sake; but I might be 
powerless, for I might arrive too late, and nothing would 
be left for you but lifelong remorse, and . . . and . . . 
for me, a broken heart” 

“ But, Lady Blakeney,” said the young man, touched 
by the gentle earnestness of this exquisitely beautiful 
woman, “ do you know that what you propose doing is 
man’s work? — you cannot possibly journey to Calais 
alone. You would be running the greatest possible 
risks to yourself, and your chances of finding your 
husband now — were I to direct you ever so carefully — 
are infinitely remote.” 

“ Oh, I hope there are risks ! ” she murmured softly. 
“ I hope there are dangers, too ! — I have so much to 
atone for. But I fear you are mistaken. Chauvelin’s 
eyes are fixed upon you all he will scarce notice me. 


THE FRIEND 


195 


Quick, Sir Andrew ! — the coach is ready, and there is 
not a moment to be lost. ... I must get to him ! I 
must!” she repeated with almost savage energy, “to 
warn him that that man is on his track. . . . Can’t 
you see — can’t you see, that I must get to him . . . 
even . . . even if it be too late to save him ... at 
least . . „ to be by his side ... at the last.” 

“Faith, Madame, you must command me. Gladly 
would I or any of my comrades lay down our lives for 
your husband. If you will go yourself . . .” 

“Nay, friend, do you not see that I would go mad if 
I let you go without me.” She stretched out her hand 
to him. “You will trust me ? ” 

“ I await your orders,” he said simply. 

“Listen, then. My coach is ready to take me to 
Dover. Do you follow me, as swiftly as horses will take 
you. We meet at nightfall at ‘ The Fisherman’s Rest.’ 
Chauvelin would avoid it, as he is known there, and I 
think it would be the safest. I will gladly accept your 
escort to Calais ... as you say, I might miss Sir Percy 
were you to direct me ever so carefully. We’ll charter 
a schooner at Dover and cross over during the night. 
Disguised, if you will agree to it, as my lacquey, you will, 
I think, escape detection.” 

“ I am entirely at your service, Madame,” rejoined the 
young man earnestly. “I trust to God that you will 
sight the Day Dream before we reach Calais. With 
Chauvelin at his heels, every step the Scarlet Pimpernel 
takes on French soil is fraught with danger.” 

“ God grant it, Sir Andrew. But now, farewell. We 
meet to-night at Dover 1 It will be a race between 
Chauvelin and me across the Channel to-night — and the 
prize — the life of the Scarlet Pimpernel.” 

He kissed her hand, and then escorted her to her 


196 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

chair. A quarter of an hour later she was back at the 
M Crown ” inn, where her coach and horses were ready 
and waiting for her. The next moment they thundered 
along the London streets, and then straight on to the 
Dover road at maddening speed. 

She had no time for despair now. She was up and 
doing and had no leisure to think. With Sir Andrew 
Ffoulkes as her companion and ally, hope had once 
again revived in her heart. 

God would be merciful. He would not allow so 
appalling a crime to be committed, as the death of a 
brave man, through the hand of a woman who^loved 
him, and worshipped him, and who would gladly have 
died for his sake. 

Marguerite's thoughts flew back to him, the mysterious 
hero, whom she had always unconsciously loved, when 
his identity was still unknown to her. Laughingly, in 
the olden days, she used to call him the shadowy king 
of her heart, and now she had suddenly found that this 
enigmatic personality whom she had worshipped, and 
the man who loved her so passionately, were one and 
the same: what wonder that one or two happier Visions 
began to force their way before her mind ? She vaguely 
wondered what she would say to him when first they 
would stand face to face. 

She had had so many anxieties, so much excitement 
during the past few hours, that she allowed herself the 
luxury of nursing these few more hopeful, brighter 
thoughis. Gradually the rumble of the coach wheels, 
with its incessant monotony, acted soothingly on her 
nerves: her eyes, aching with fatigue and many shed 
and unshed tears, closed involuntarily, and she fell into 
a troubled sleep. 


CHAPTER XXI 


SUSPENSE 

It was late into the night when she at last reached *' The 
Fisherman’s Rest.” She had done the whole journey in 
less than eight hours, thanks to innumerable changes of 
horses at the various coaching stations, for which she 
always paid lavishly, thus obtaining the very best and 
swiftest that could be had. 

Her coachman, too, had been indefatigable; the promise 
of special and rich reward had no doubt helped to keep 
him up, and he had literally burned the ground beneath 
his mistress’ coach wheels. 

The arrival of Lady Blakeney in the middle of the 
night caused a considerable flutter at “ The Fisherman’s 
Rest.” Sally jumped hastily out of bed, and Mr Jelly- 
band was at great pains how to make his important guest 
comfortable. 

Both these good folk were far too well drilled in the 
manners appertaining to innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest 
surprise at Lady Blakeney’s arrival, alone, at this extra- 
ordinary hour. No doubt they thought all the more, 
but Marguerite was far too absorbed in the importance 
— the deadly earnestness — of her journey, to stop and 
ponder over trifles of that sort. 

The cpffee-room — the scene lately of the dastardly 
outrage on two English gentlemen — was quite deserted. 
Mr Jellyband hastily relit the lamp, rekindled a cheerful 
*97 


198 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

bit of fire in the great hearth, and then wheeled a 
comfortable chair by it, into which Marguerite gratefully 
sank. 

“Will your ladyship stay the night?” asked pretty 
Miss Sally, who was already busy laying a snow-white 
cloth on the table, preparatory to providing a simple 
supper for her ladyship. 

“ No ! not the whole night,” replied Marguerite. “ At 
anyrate, I shall not want any room but this, if I can 
have it to myself for an hour or two.” 

“It is at your ladyship’s service,” said honest Jelly- 
band, whose rubicund face was set in its tightest folds, 
lest it should betray before “ the quality ” that boundless 
astonishment which the worthy fellow had begun to feel. 

“I shall be crossing over at the first turn of the tide,” 
said Marguerite, “and in the first schooner I can get. 
But my coachman and men will stay the night, and pro- 
bably several days longer, so I hope you will make them 
comfortable.” 

“ Yes, my lady ; I’ll look after them. Shall Sally bring 
your ladyship some supper ? ” 

“ Yes, please. Put something cold on the table, and 
as soon as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes comes, show him in 
here.” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

Honest Jellyband’s face now expressed distress in 
spite of himself. He had great regard for Sir Percy 
Blakeney, and did not like to see his lady running away 
with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was no business 
of his, and Mr Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his 
heart, he recollected that her ladyship was after all only 
one of them “ furriners what wonder that she was im- 
moral like the rest of them ? ” 

“Don’t sit up, honest Jellyband,” continued Marguerite, 


SUSPENSE 


199 

kindly, "nor you either, Mistress Sally. Sir Andrew 
may be late/ 

Jellyband was only too willing that Sally should go to 
bed. He was beginning not to like these goings-on at 
all. Still, Lady Blakeney would pay handsomely for the 
accommodation, and it certainly was no business of his. 

Sally arranged a simple supper of cold meat, wine, and 
fruit, on the table, then with a respectful curtsey, she retired, 
wondering in her little mind why her ladyship looked so 
serious, when she was about to elope with her gallant. 

Then commenced a period of weary waiting for Mar- 
guerite. She knew that Sir Andrew — who would have 
to provide himself with clothes befitting a lacquey — 
could not possibly reach Dover for at least a couple of 
hours. He was a splendid horseman of course, and 
would make light in such an emergency of the seventy 
odd miles between London and Dover. He would, too, 
literally burn the ground beneath his horse’s hoofs, but 
he might not always get very good remounts, and in any 
case, he could not have started from London until at 
least an hour after she did. 

She had seen nothing of Chauvelin on the road. Her 
coachman, whom she questioned, had not seen anyone 
answering the description his mistress gave him, of the 
wizened figure of the little Frenchman. 

Evidently, therefore, he had been ahead of her all the 
time. She had not dared to question the people at the 
various inns, where they had stopped to change horses. 
She feared that Chauvelin had spies all along the route, 
who might overhear her questions, then outdistance her 
and warn her enemy of her approach. 

Now she wondered at what inn he might be stopping, 
or whether he had had the good luck of chartering a 
vessel already, and was now himself on the way to 


200 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


France. That thought gripped her at the heart as with 
an iron vice. If indeed she should be too late already ! 

The loneliness of the room overwhelmed her ; every- 
thing within was so horribly still ; the ticking of the 
grandfather’s clock — dreadfully slow and measured — was 
the only sound which broke this awful loneliness. 

Marguerite had need of all her energy, all her stead- 
fastness of purpose, to keep up her courage through this 
weary midnight waiting. 

Everyone else in the house but herself must have been 
asleep. She had heard Sally go upstairs. Mr Jellyband 
had gone to see to her coachman and men, and then had 
returned and taken up a position under the porch outside, 
just where Marguerite had first met Chauvelin about a 
week ago. He evidently meant to wait up for Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes, but was soon overcome by sweet 
slumbers, for presently — in addition to the slow ticking 
of the clock — Marguerite could hear the monotonous and 
dulcet tones of the worthy fellow’s breathing. 

For sometime now, she had realised that the beautiful 
warm October’s day, so happily begun, bad turned into 
a rough and cold night. She had felt very chilly, and 
was glad of the cheerful blaze in the hearth : but 
gradually, as time wore on, the weather became more 
rough, and the sound of the great breakers against the 
Admiralty Pier, though some distance from the inn, 
came to her as the noise of muffled thunder. 

Hie wind was becoming boisterous, rattling the leaded 
windows and the massive doors of the old-fashioned 
house : it shook the trees outside and roared down the 
vast chimney. Marguerite wondered if the wind would 
be favourable for her journey. She had no fear of the 
storm, and would have braved worse risks sooner than 
delay the crossing by an hour. 


SUSPENSE 


201 


A sudden commotion outside roused her from her 
meditations. Evidently it was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, 
just arrived in mad haste, for she heard his horse's 
hoofs thundering on the flag -stones outside, then 
Mr Jellyband’s sleepy, yet cheerful tones bidding him 
welcome. 

For a moment, then, the awkwardness of her positior 
struck Marguerite ; alone at this hour, in a place where 
she was well known, and having made an assignation 
with a young cavalier equally well known, and who 
arrives in disguise 1 What food for gossip to those 
mischievously inclined. 

The idea struck Marguerite chiefly from its humorous 
side: there was such quaint contrast between the 
seriousness of her errand, and the construction which 
would naturally be put on her actions by honest Mr 
Jellyband, that, for the first time since many hours, a 
little smile b^gan playing round the corners of her 
childlike mourn, and when, presently, Sir Andrew, almost 
unrecognisable in his lacquey-like garb, entered the 
coffee-room, she was able to greet him with quite a 
merry laugh. 

“ Faith ! Monsieur, my lacquey,” she said, “ I am 
satisfied with your appearance ! ” 

Mr Jellyband had followed Sir Andrew, looking 
strangely perplexed. The young gallant’s disguise had 
confirmed his worst suspicions. Without a smile upon 
his jovial face, he drew the cork from the bottle of wine, 
set the chairs ready, and prepared to wait. 

“Thanks, honest friend,” said Marguerite, who was 
still smiling at the thought of what the worthy fellow 
must be thinking at that very moment, “we shall 
require nothing more : and here’s for all the trouble you 
have been put to on our account” 


202 


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


She handed two or three gold pieces to Jellyband, who 
took them respectfully, and .with becoming gratitude. 

“Stay, Lady Blakeney,” interposed Sir Andrew, as 
Jellyband was about to retire, “ I am afraid we shall 
require something more of my friend Jelly’s hospitality. 
I am sorry to say we cannot cross over to-night.” 

“ Not cross over to-night ? ” she repeated in amaze- 
ment. “ But we must, Sir Andrew, we must 1 There 
can be no question of cannot, and whatever it may cost, 
we must get a vessel to-night.” 

But the young man shook his head sadly. 

“I am afraid it is not a question of cost, Lady 
Blakeney. There is a nasty storm blowing from France, 
the wind is dead against us, we cannot possibly sail until 
it has changed." 

Marguerite became deadly pale. She had not foreseen 
this. Nature herself was playing her a horrible, cruel 
trick. Percy was in danger, and she could not go to 
him, because the wind happened to blow from the coast 
of France. 

“ But we must go ! — we must ! ” she repeated with 
strange, persistent energy, “ you know, we must go ! 
— can’t you find a way ? ” 

14 1 have been down to the shore already,” he said, 
44 and had a talk to one or two skippers. It is quite 
impossible to set sail to-night, so every sailor assured me. 
No one," he added, looking significantly at Marguerite, 
1 no one could possibly put out of Dover to-night." 

Marguerite at once understood what he meant. No 
one included Chauvelin as well as herself. She nodded 
pleasantly to Jellyband. 

“Well, then, I must resign myself,” she said to him. 
** Have you a room for me ? ” 

41 Oh, yes, your ladyship. A nice, bright, airy room. 


SUSPENSE 


203 

m see to it at once. . . . And there is another one for 
Sir Andrew — both quite ready.” 

“That’s brave now, mine honest Jelly,” said Sir 
Andrew, gaily, and clapping his worthy host vigorously 
on the back. “You unlock both those rooms, and 
leave our candles here on the dresser. I vow you are 
dead with sleep, and her ladyship must have some 
supper before she retires. There, have no fear, friend of 
the rueful countenance, her ladyship’s visit, though at 
this unusual hour, is a great honour to thy house, and 
Sir Percy Blakeney will reward thee doubly, if thou seest 
well to her privacy and comfort.” 

Sir Andrew had no doubt guessed the many conflicting 
doubts and fears which raged in honest Jellyband’s head : 
and, as he was a gallant gentleman, he tried by this brave 
hint to allay some of the worthy innkeeper’s suspicions. 
He had the satisfaction of seeing that he had partially 
succeeded. Jellyband’s rubicund countenance bright- 
ened somewhat, at mention of Sir Percy’s name. 

“ I’ll go and see to it at once, sir,” he said with 
alacrity, and with less frigidity in his manner. “ Has her 
ladyship everything she wants for supper ? ” 

“ Everything, thanks, honest friend, and as I am 
famished and dead with fatigue, I pray you see to the 
rooms.” 

“Now tell me,” she said eagerly, as soon as Jellyband 
had gone from the room, “ tell me all your news.” 

“There is nothing else much to tell you, Lady 
Blakeney,” replied the young man. “ The storm makes 
it quite impossible for any vessel to put out of Dover 
this tide. But, what seemed to you at first a terrible 
calamity, is really a blessing in disguise. If we cannot 
cross over to France to-night, Chauvelin is in the same 
quandary.” 


204 THE scarlet pimpernel 

“ He may have left before the storm broke out/’ 

“God grant he may,” said Sir Andrew, merrily, “for 
very likely then he’ll have been driven out of his course ! 
Who knows ? He may now even be lying at the bottom 
of the sea, for there is a furious storm raging, and it will 
fare ill with all small craft which happen to be out. 
But I fear me we cannot build our hopes upon the ship- 
wreck of that cunning devil, and of all his murderous 
plans. The sailors I spoke to, all assured me that no 
schooner had put out of Dover for several hours: on 
the other hand, I ascertained that a stranger had arrived 
by coach this afternoon, and had, like myself, made some 
inquiries about crossing over to France.” 

“ Then Chauvelin is still in Dover ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly. Shall I go waylay him and run my 
sword through him? That were indeed the quickest 
way out of the difficulty.” 

“ Nay ! Sir Andrew, do not jest ! Alas ! I have often 
since last night caught myself wishing for that fiend’s 
death. But what you suggest is impossible ! The laws 
of this country do not permit of murder 1 It is only in 
our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter is done 
lawfully, in the name of Liberty and of brotherly love.” 

Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, 
to partake of some supper and to drink a little wine. 
This enforced rest of at least twelve hours, until the next 
tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to bear in the state 
of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in 
these small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat 
and drink. 

Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all 
those who are in love, made her almost happy by talking 
to her about her husband. He recounted to her soma 
of the daring escapes the brave Scarlet Pimpernel had 


SUSPENSE 


305 


contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a relent- 
less and bloody revolution was driving out of their 
country. He made her eyes glow with enthusiasm by 
telling her of his bravery, his ingenuity, his resourceful- 
ness, when it meant snatching the lives. of men, women, 
and even children from beneath the very edge of that 
murderous, ever-ready guillotine. 

He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her 
of the Scarlet Pimpernel’s quaint and many disguises, 
through which he had baffled the strictest watch set 
against him at the barricades of Paris. This last time, the 
escape of the Comtessede Tournay and her children had 
been a veritable masterpiece — Blakeney disguised as a 
hideous old market-woman, in filthy cap and straggling 
grey locks, was a sight fit to make the gods laugh. 

Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to 
describe Blakeney’s appearance, whose gravest difficulty 
always consisted in his great height, which in France 
made disguise doubly difficult. 

Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to 
spend in enforced inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose 
from the table with an impatient sigh. She looked for- 
ward with dread to the night in the bed upstairs, with 
terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the 
howling of the storm to help chase sleep away. 

She wondered where Percy was now. The Day Dream 
was a strong, well-built, sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had 
expressed the opinion that no doubt she had got in the 
lee of the wind before the storm broke out, or else per- 
haps had not ventured into the open at all, but was lying 
quietly at Gravesend. 

Briggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled a 
schooner as well as any master mariner. There was no 
danger for them from the storm. 


206 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


It was long past midnight when at last Marguerite 
retired to rest. As she had feared, sleep sedulously 
avoided her eyes. Her thoughts were of the blackest 
during these long, weary hours, whilst that incessant storm 
raged which was keeping her away from Percy. The 
sound of the distant breakers made her heart ache with 
melancholy. She was in the mood when the sea has a 
saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we 
are very happy, that we can bear to gaze merrily upon 
the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on 
with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accom- 
paniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When 
they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety ; but when they 
are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring 
additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness 
and ©f the pettiness of all our joys. 


t 


CHAPTER XXII 


CALAIS 

The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later 
must perforce come to an end. 

Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute 
mental torture as well-nigh drove her crazy. After 
a sleepless night, she rose early, wild with excite- 
ment, dying to start on her journey, terrified lest further 
obstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else 
in the house was astir, so frightened was she, lest she 
should miss the one golden opportunity of making a 
start 

When she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew 
Ffoulkes sitting in the coffee-room. He had been out 
half an hour earlier, and had gone to the Admiralty Pier, 
only to find that neither the French packet nor any 
privately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet. 
The storm was then at its fullest, and the tide was on 
the turn. If the wind did not abate or change, they would 
perforce have to wait another ten or twelve hours until 
the next tide, before a start could be made. And the 
storm had not abated, the wind had not changed, and 
the tide was rapidly drawing out. 

Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard 
this melancholy news. Only the most firm resolution 
kept her from totally breaking down, and thus adding to 


208 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


the young man’s anxiety, which evidently had become 
very keen. 

Though he tried to disguise it, Marguerite could see 
that Sir Andrew was just as anxious as she was to reach 
his comrade and friend. This enforced inactivity was 
terrible to them both. 

How they spent that wearisome day at Dover, Mar- 
guerite could never afterwards say. She was in terror of 
showing herself, lest Chauvelin’s spies happened to be 
about, so she had a private sitting-room, and she and Sir 
Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying to take, at long 
intervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally would 
bring them, with nothing to do but to think, to conjec- 
ture, and only occasionally to hope. 

The storm had abated just too late ; the tide was by 
then too far out to allow a vessel to put off to sea. The 
wind had changed, and was settling down to a comfort- 
able north-westerly breeze — a veritable godsend for a 
speedy passage across to France. 

And there those two waited, wondering if the hour 
would ever come when they could finally make a start. 
There had been one happy interval in this long weary 
day, and that was when Sir Andrew went down once 
again to the pier, and presently came back to tell 
Marguerite that he had chartered a quick schooner, 
whose skipper was ready to put to sea the moment the 
tide was favourable. 

From that moment the hours seemed less wearisome ; 
there was less hopelessness in the waiting ; and at last, 
at five o’clock in the afternoon, Marguerite, closely 
veiled and followed by Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who, in 
the guise of her lacquey, was carrying a number of im- 
pedimenta, found her way down to the pier. 

Once on board, the keen, fresh sea-air revived her 


CALAIS 


209 


the breeze was just strong enough to nicely swell the 
sails of the Foam Crest, as she cut her way merrily 
towards the open. 

The sunset was glorious after the storm, and Mar- 
guerite, as she watched the white cliffs of Dover 
gradually disappearing from view, felt more at peace, 
and once more almost hopeful. 

Sir Andrew was full of kind attentions, and she felt 
how lucky she had been to have him by her side in this, 
her great trouble. 

Gradually the grey coast of France began to emerge 
from the fast-gathering evening mists. One or two 
lights could be seen flickering, and the spires of several 
churches to rise out of the surrounding haze. 

Half an hour later Marguerite had landed upon 
French shore. She was back in that country where at 
this very moment men slaughtered their fellow-creatures 
by the hundreds, and sent innocent women and children 
in thousands to the block. 

The very aspect of the country and its people, even 
in this remote sea-coast town, spoke of that seething 
revolution, three hundred miles away, in beautiful Paris, 
now rendered hideous by the constant flow of the blood 
of her noblest sons, by the wailing of the widows, and 
the cries of fatherless children. 

The men all wore red caps — in various stages of 
cleanliness — but all with the tricolour cockade pinned 
on the left-hand side. Marguerite noticed with a 
shudder that, instead of the laughing, merry counten- 
ance habitual to her own countrymen, their faces now 
invariably wore a look of sly distrust. 

Every man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows : the 
most innocent word uttered in jest might at any time 
be brought up as a proof of aristocratic tendencies, or 


2io THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


of treachery against the people. Even the women went 
about with a curious look of fear and of hate lurking in 
their brown eyes ; and all watched Marguerite as she 
stepped on shore, followed by Sir Andrew, and murmured 
as she passed along : “ Sacris aristos / w or else “ Sacr'es 
Anglais l" 

Otherwise their presence excited no further comment. 
Calais, even in those days, was in constant business 
communication with England, and English merchants 
were often to be seen on this coast. It was well known 
that in view of the heavy duties in England, a vast deal 
of French wines and brandies were smuggled across. 
This pleased the French bourgeois immensely ; he liked 
to see the English Government and the English king, 
both of whom he hated, cheated out of their revenues ; 
and an English smuggler was always a welcome guest at 
the tumble-down taverns of Calais and Boulogne. 

So, perhaps, *s Sir Andrew gradually directed Mar- 
guerite through the tortuous streets of Calais, many of 
the population, who turned with an oath to look at the 
strangers clad in the English fashion, thought that they 
were bent on purchasing dutiable articles for their own 
fog-ridden country, and gave them no more than a 
passing thought. 

Marguerite, however, wondered how her husband’s 
tall, massive figure could have passed through Calais 
unobserved : she marvelled what disguise he assumed to 
do his noble work, without exciting too much attention. 

Without exchanging more than a few words, Sir 
Andrew was leading her right across the town, to the 
other side from that where they had landed, and on the 
way towards Cap Gris Nez. The streets were narrow, 
tortuous, and mostly evil-smelling, with a mixture of 
stale fish and damD cellar odours. There had been 


CALAIS 


211 


heavy rain here during the storm last night, and some- 
times Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the mud, for the 
roads were not lighted save by the occasional glimmer 
from a lamp inside a house. 

But she did not heed any of these petty discomforts : 
5 ‘We may meet Blakeney at the ‘Chat Gris,’” Sir 
Andrew had said, when they landed, and she was walk- 
ing as if on a carpet of rose-leaves, for she was going to 
meet him almost at once. 

At last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew 
evidently knew the road, for he had walked unerringly 
in the dark, and had not asked his way frdm anyone. 
It was too dark then for Marguerite to notice the outside 
aspect of this house. The “Chat Gris,” as Sir Andrew 
had called it, was evidently a small wayside inn on the 
outskirts of Calais, and on the way to Gris Nez. It lay 
some little distance from the coast, for the sound of the 
sea seemed to come from afar. 

Sir Andrew knocked at the door with the knob of his 
cane, and from within Marguerite heard a sort of grunt 
and the muttering of a number of oaths. Sir Andrew 
knocked again, this time more peremptorily : more oaths 
were heard, and then shuffling steps seemed to draw 
near the door. Presently this was thrown open, and Mar- 
guerite found herself on the threshold of the most dilapi- 
dated, most squalid room she had ever seen in all her life. 

The paper, such as it was, was Hanging from the walls 
in strips; there did not seem to be a single piece of 
furniture iD the room that could, by the wildest stretch 
of imagination, be called “ whole.” Most of the chairs 
had broken backs, others had no seats to them, one 
corner of the table was propped up with a bundle of 
faggots, there where the fourth leg had been broken. 

In one corner of the room there was a huge hearth, 


212 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


over which hung a stock-pot, with a not altogether 
unpalatable odour of hot soup emanating therefrom. 
On one side of the room, high up in the wall, there 
was a species of loft, before which hung a tattered blue- 
and-white checked curtain. A rickety set of steps led 
up to this loft. 

On the great bare walls, with their colourless paper, 
all stained with varied filth, there were chalked up at 
intervals in great bold characters, the words : “ Libert^ — 
Egalit£ — F raternit^. ” 

The whole of this sordid abode was dimly lighted by 
an evil-smelling oil-lamp, which hung from the rickety 
rafters of the ceiling. It all looked so horribly squalid, 
so dirty and uninviting, that Marguerite hardly dared 
to cross the threshold. 

Sir Andrew, however, had stepped unhesitatingly 
forward. 

“English travellers, citoyen!” he said boldly, and 
speaking in French. 

The individual who had come to the door in response 
to Sir Andrew’s knock, and who, presumably, was the 
owner of this squalid abode, was an elderly, heavily-built 
peasant, dressed in a dirty blue blouse, heavy sabots, 
from which wisps of straw protruded all round, shabby 
blue trousers, and the inevitable red cap with the tri- 
colour cockade, that proclaimed his momentary political 
views. He carried a short wooden pipe, from which the 
odour of rank tobacco emanated. He looked with some 
suspicion and a great deal of contempt at the two 
travellers, muttered “ Sacrrres Anglais f ” and spat upon 
the ground to further show his independence of spirit, 
but, nevertheless, he stood aside to let them enter, no 
doubt well aware that these same Sacrrres Anglais 
dways had well-filled purses. 


CALAIS 


213 


“Oh, lud 1 ” said Marguerite, as she advanced into the 
room, holding her handkerchief to her dainty nose, 
“ what a dreadful hole ! Are you sure this is the place ? ” 

“Aye ! ’tis the place, sure enough,” replied the young 
man as, with his lace-edged, fashionable handkerchief, 
he dusted a chair for Marguerite to sit on ; “ but I vow 
I never saw a more villainous hole.” 

“ Faith 1 ” she said, looking round with some curiosity 
and a great deal of horror at the dilapidated walls, the 
broken chairs, the rickety table, “ it certainly does not 
look inviting.” 

The landlord of the “ Chat Gris ” — by name, Brogard 
— had taken *iv further notice of his guests; he con- 
cluded that presently they would order supper, and in 
the meanwhile it was not for a free citizen to show 
deference, or even courtesy, to anyone, however smartly 
they might be dressed. 

By the hearth sat a huddled-up figure clad, seemingly, 
mostly in rags : that figure was apparently a woman, 
although even that would have been hard to distinguish, 
except for the cap, which had once been white, and for 
what looked like the semblance of a petticoat. She was 
sitting mumbling to herself, and from time to time 
stirring the brew in her stock-pot. 

“Hey, my friend!” said Sir Andrew at last, M we 
should like some supper. . . . The citoyenne there,” 
he added, pointing to the huddled-up bundle of rags by 
the hearth, “is concocting some delicious soup, I’ll 
warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food for several 
hours.” 

It took Brogard some few moments to consider the 
question. A free citizen does not respond too readily 
to the wishes of those, who happen to require something 
of him. 


214 THE scarlet pimpernel 

“ Sacrrres aristos / " he murmured, and once more spat 
upon the ground. 

Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood 
in a corner of the room ; from this he took an old 
pewter soup-tureen and slowly, and without a word, 
he handed it to his better-half, who, in the same silence, 
began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock- 
pot. 

Marguerite had watched all these preparations with 
absolute horror ; were it not for the earnestness of her 
purpose, she would incontinently have fled from this 
abode of dirt and evil smells. 

“Faith! our host and hostess ai/» not cheerful 
people,” said Sir Andrew, seeing the look of horror on 
Marguerite’s face. “ I would I could offer you a more 
hearty and more appetising meal . . . but I think you 
will find the soup eatable and the wine good; these 
people wallow in dirt, but live well as a rule.” 

“ Nay ! I pray you, Sir Andrew,” she said gently, “be 
not anxious about me. My mind is scarce inclined to 
dwell on thoughts of supper.” 

Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome prepara- 
tions ; he had placed a couple of spoons, also two 
glasses on the table, both of which Sir Andrew took the 
precaution of wiping carefully. 

Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some 
bread, and Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair 
to the table and to make some pretence at eating. Sir 
Andrew, as befitting his rdlt of lacquey, stood behind 
her chair. 

“Nay, Madame, I pray you,” he said, seeing that 
Marguerite seemed quite unable to eat, “ I beg of you 
to try and swallow some food — remember you have need 
of all your strength. 1 


CALAIS 


215 


The soup certainly was not bad ; it smelt and tasted 
good. Marguerite might have enjoyed it, but for the 
horrible surroundings. She broke the bread, however, 
and drank some of the wine. 

“ Nay, Sir Andrew,” she said, “ I do not like to see you 
standing. You have need of food just as much as I 
have. This creature will only think that I am an 
eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if 
you’ll sit down and partake of this semblance of supper 
beside me.” 

Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly 
necessary upon the table, seemed not to trouble himself 
any further about his guests. The Mere Brogard had 
quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood and 
lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, some- 
times under Marguerite’s very nose, as any free-born 
citizen who was anybody’s equal should do. 

“Confound the brute ! ” said Sir Andrew, with native 
British wrath, as Brogard leant up against the table, 
smoking and looking down superciliously at these two 
saerrres Anglais . 

11 In Heaven’s name, man,” admonished Marguerite, 
hurriedly, seeing that Sir Andrew, with British-born 
instinct, was ominously clenching his fist, “remember 
that you are in France, and that in this year of grace 
this is the temper of the people.” 

“ I’d like to scrag the brute 1 ” muttered Sir Andrew, 
savagely. 

He had taken Marguerite’s advice and sat next to her 
at table, and they were both making noble efforts to 
deceive one another, by pretending to eat and drink. 

“ I pray you,” said Marguerite, “ keep the creature in 
a good temper, so that he may answer the questions we 
must put to him.” 


216 the scarlet pimpernel 


“I'll do my best, but, begad! I’d sooner scrag him 
than question him. Hey ! my friend," he said 
pleasantly in French, and tapping Brogard lightly on the 
shoulder, “ do you see many of our quality along these 
parts ? Many English travellers, I mean ? ” 

Brogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, 
puffed away at his pipe for a moment or two as he was 
in no hurry, then muttered, — 

“ Heu ! — sometimes ! ” 

“Ah!” said Sir Andrew, carelessly, “English 
travellers always know where they can get good wine, 
eh ! my friend? — Now, tell me, my lady was desiring to 
know if by any chance you happen to have seen a great 
friend of hers, an English gentleman, who often comes to 
Calais on business ; he is tall, and recently was on his 
way to Paris — my lady hoped to have met him in Calais.” 

Marguerite tried not to look at Brogard, lest she 
should betray before him the burning anxiety with 
which she waited for his reply. But a free-born French 
citizen is never in any hurry to answer questions: 
Brogard took his time, then he said very slowly, — 

“Tall Englishman? — To-day ! — Yes.” 

“You have seen him?” asked Sir Andrew, carelessly. 
“Yes, to-day," muttered Brogard, sullenly. Then he 
quietly took Sir Andrew's hat from a chair close by, put 
it on his own head, tugged at his dirty blouse, and 
generally tried to express in pantomime that the in- 
dividual in question wore very fine clothes. “ Sacrre 
aristo / * he muttered, “ that tall Englishman 1 ” 
Marguerite could scarce repress a scream. 

“It’s Sir Percy right enough,” she murmured, “and 
not even in disguise ! ’’ 

She smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through 
her gathering tears, at thought of “ the ruling passion 


CALAIS 


117 


itrong in death n ; of Percy running into the wildest, 
maddest dangers, with the latest-cut coat upon his back, 
and the laces of his jabot unruffled. 

“ Oh ! the foolhardiness of it ! ” she sighed. “ Quick, 
Sir Andrew ! ask the man when he went.” 

“Ah, yes, my friend,” said Sir Andrew, addressing 
Brogard, with the same assumption of carelessness, “ my 
lord always wears beautiful clothes ; the tall Englishman 
you saw, was certainly my lady's friend. And he has 
gone, you say ? ” 

“ He went . . . yes . . . but he’s coming back . . . 
here — he ordered supper . . 

Sir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of 
warning upon Marguerite’s arm ; it came none too soon, 
for the next moment her wild, mad joy would have 
betrayed her. He was safe and well, was coming back 
here presently, she would see him in a few moments 
perhaps. . . . Oh ! the wildness of her joy seemed almost 
more than she could bear. 

“ Here ! ” she said to Brogard, who seemed suddenly 
to have been transformed in her eyes into some heaven- 
born messenger of bliss. “ Here ! — did you say the 
English gentleman was coming back here?” 

The heaven-born messenger of bliss spat upon the 
floor, to express his contempt for all and sundry aristos, 
who chose to haunt the “ Chat Gris.” 

“Heu!” he muttered, “he ordered supper — he will 
come back. . . . Sacrre Anglais / ” he added, by way o i 
protest against all this fuss for a mere Englishman. 

“ But where is he now ? — Do you know ? ” she asked 
eagerly, placing her dainty white hand upon the dirty 
sleeve of his blue blouse. 

“He went to get a horse and cart,” said Brogard, 
laconically, as, with a surly gesture, he shook off from 

' * 


218 the scarlet pimpernel 


his arm that pretty hand which princes had been proud 
to kiss. 

“ At what time did he go ? ” 

But Brogard had evidently had enough of these 
questionings. He did not think that it was fitting for a 
citizen — who was the equal of anybody — to be thus 
catechised by these saerres aristos y even though they 
were rich English ones. It was distinctly more fitting 
to his new-born dignity to be as rude as possible ; it was 
a sure sign of servility to meekly reply to civil questions. 

“I don’t know,” he said, surlily. “I have said 
enough, voyotts, Us aristos 1 . . . He came to-day. 
He ordered supper. He went out. — He’ll come back. 
Voila / ” 

And with this parting assertion of his rights as a 
citizen and a free man, to be as rude as he well pleased, 
Brogard shuffled out of the room, banging the door 
after him. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


HOPE 

** Faith, Madame ! ” said Sir Andrew, seeing that Mar- 
guerite seemed desirous to call her surly host back 
again, “I think we’d better leave him alone. We 
shall not get anything more out of him, and we might 
arouse his suspicions. One never knows what spies 
may be lurking around these God-forsaken places.” 

“ What care I ? ” she replied lightly, “ now I know 
that my husband is safe, and that I shall see him almost 
directly 1 n 

“Hush!” he said in genuine alarm, for she had 
talked quite loudly, in the fulness of her glee, “the 
very walls have ears in France, these days.” 

He rose quickly from the table, and walked round 
the bare, squalid room, listening attentively at the door, 
through which Brogard had just disappeared, and whence 
only muttered oaths and shuffling footsteps could be 
heard. He also ran up the rickety steps that led to 
the attic, to assure himself that there were no spies of 
Chauvelin’s about the place. 

“Are we alone, Monsieur, my lacquey?” said Mar- 
guerite, gaily, as the young man once more sat down 
beside her. “ May we talk ? ” 

“ As cautiously as possible ! n he entreated. 

“ Faith, man ! but you wear a glum face i As for me s 
I could dance with joy ! Surely there is no longer any 
cause for fear. Our boat is on the beach, the Foam 
«9 


220 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


Crest not two miles out at sea, and my husband will 
be here, under this very roof, within the next half hour 
perhaps. Sure ! there is naught to hinder us. Chauve* 
lin and his gang have not yet arrived.” 

“ Nay, madam ! that I fear we do not know.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ He was at Dover at the same time that we were.” 

“Held up by the same storm, which kept us from 
starting.” 

“ Exactly. But — I did not speak of it before, for I 
feared to alarm you — I saw him on the beach not five 
minutes before we embarked. At least, I swore to 
myself at the time that it was himself; he was dis- 
guised as a curt, so that Satan, his own guardian, would 
scarce have known him. But I heard him then, bar- 
gaining for a vessel to take him swiftly to Calais; 
and he must have set sail less than an hour after 
we did.” 

Marguerite’s face had quickly lost its look of joy. 
The terrible danger in which Percy stood, now that 
he was actually on French soil, became suddenly and 
horribly clear to her. Chauvelin was close upon his 
heels; here in Calais, the astute diplomatist was all- 
powerful ; a word from him and Percy could be tracked 
and arrested and . . . 

Every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins ; 
not even during the moments of her wildest anguish 
in England had she so completely realised the im- 
minence of the peril in which her husband stood. 
Chauvelin had sworn to bring the Scarlet Pimpernel 
to the guillotine, and now the daring plotter, whose 
anonymity hitherto had been his safeguard, stood re- 
vealed through her own hand, to his most bitter, most 
relentless enemy. 


HOPE 


*z i 


Chauvelin — when he waylaid Lord Tony and Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes in the coffee-room of “The Fisher- 
man’s Rest ” — had obtained possession of all the plans 
of this latest expedition. Armand St Just, the Comte 
de Toumay and other fugitive royalists were to have 
met the Scarlet Pimpernel — or rather, as it had been 
originally arranged, two of his emissaries — on this 
day, the and of October, at a place evidently known 
to the league, and vaguely alluded to as the “Pfere 
Blanchard’s hut.” 

Armand, whose connection with the Scarlet Pimper- 
nel and disavowal of the brutal policy of the Reign of 
Terror was still unknown to his countrymen, had left 
England a little more than a week ago, carrying with 
him the necessary instructions, which would enable 
him to meet the other fugitives and to convey them to 
this place of safety 

This much Marguerite had fully understood from the 
first, and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had confirmed her sur- 
mises. She knew, too, that when Sir Percy realised that 
his own plans and his directions to his lieutenants had 
been stolen by Chauvelin, it was too late to communi- 
cate with Armand, or to send fresh instructions to the 
fugitives. 

They would, of necessity, be at the appointed time 
and place, not knowing how grave was the danger 
which now awaited their brave rescuer. 

Blakeney, who as usual had planned and organised 
the whole expedition, would not allow any of his 
younger comrades to run the risk of almost certain 
capture. Hence his hurried note to them at Lord 
Grenville’s ball — “Start myself to-morrow — alone.” 

And now with his identity known to his most bitter 
enemy, his every step would be dogged, the moment h« 


322 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


set foot in France. He would be tracked by Chauve- 
lin’s emissaries, followed until he reached that mysterious 
hut where the fugitives were waiting for him, and there 
the trap would be closed on him and on them. 

There was but one hour — the hour’s start which 
Marguerite and Sir Andrew had of their enemy — in 
which to warn Percy of the imminence of his danger, 
and to persuade him to give up the foolhardy expedi- 
tion, which could only end in his own death. 

But there was that one hour. 

“Chauvelin knows of this inn, from the papers he 
stole,” said Sir Andrew, earnestly, “and on landing will 
make straight for it.” 

“He has not landed yet,” she said, “we have an 
hour’s start of him, and Percy will be here directly. 
We shall be mid-Channel ere Chauvelin has realised 
that we have slipped through his fingers.” 

She spoke excitedly and eagerly, wishing to infuse 
into her young friend some of that buoyant hope, 
which still clung to her heart. But he shook his head 
sadly. 

“Silent again, Sir Andrew?” she said with some 
impatience. “ Why do you shake your head and look 
so glum ? ” 

“Faith, Madame,” he replied, “’tis only because in 
making your rose-coloured plans, you are forgetting the 
most important factor.” 

“ What in the world do you mean ? — I am forgetting 
nothing. . . . What factor do you mean ? ” she added 
with more impatience. 

“It stands six foot odd high,” replied Sir Andrew, 
quietly, “ and hath name Percy Blakeney.” 

“ I don’t understand,” she murmured. 

“Do you think that Blakeney would leave Calais 


HOPE 223 

without having accomplished what he set out to 
do?” 

" You mean . . .?” 

11 There’s the old Comte de Tournay . . .* 

“ The Comte . . . she murmured. 

“And St Just . . . and others . . 

“My brother!” she said with a heart-broken sob 
of anguish. “Heaven help me, but I fear I had 
forgotten.” 

“Fugitives as they are, these men at this moment 
await with perfect confidence and unshaken faith the 
arrival of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who has pledged his 
honour to take them safely across the Channel.” 

Indeed, she had forgotten ! With the sublime selfish- 
ness of a woman who loves with her whole heart, she 
had in the last twenty-four hours had no thought save 
for him. His precious, noble life, his danger — he, the 
loved one, the brave hero, he alone dwelt in her mind. 

“ My brother ! ” she murmured, as one by one the 
heavy tears gathered in her eyes, as memory came back 
to her of Armand, the companion and darling of her 
childhood, the man for whom she had committed the 
deadly sin, which had so hopelessly imperilled her brave 
husband’s life. 

“Sir Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted, 
honoured leader of a score of English gentlemen,” 
said Sir Andrew, proudly, “ if he abandoned those who 
placed their trust in him. As for breaking his word, 
the very thought is preposterous ! ” 

There was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite 
had buried her face in her hands, and was letting the 
tears slowly trickle through her trembling fingers. The 
young man said nothing ; his heart ached for this 
beautiful woman in her awful grief. Ali along he had 


224 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

felt the terrible impasse in which her own rash act had 
plunged them all. He knew his friend and leader so 
well, with his reckless daring, his mad bravery, his 
worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew knew 
that Blakeney would brave any danger, run the wildest 
risks sooner than break it, and, with Chauvelin at his 
very heels, would make a final attempt, however desper- 
ate, to rescue those who trusted in him. 

11 Faith, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite at last, making 
brave efforts to dry her tears, “ you are right, and I 
would not now shame myself by trying to dissuade him 
from doing his duty. As you say, I should plead in 
vain. God grant him strength and ability,” she added 
fervently and resolutely, “ to outwit his pursuers. He 
will not refuse to take you with him, perhaps, when he 
starts on his noble work ; between you, you will have 
cunning as well as valour ! God guard you both ! In 
the meanwhile I think we should lose no time. I still 
believe that his safety depends upon his knowing that 
Chauvelin is on his track.” 

“ Undoubtedly. He has wonderful resources at his 
command. As soon as he is aware of his danger he 
will exercise more caution : his ingenuity is a veritable 
miracle.” 

“ Then, what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in 
the village whilst I wait here against his coming ! — You 
might come across Percy’s track and thus save valuable 
time. If you find him, tell him to beware ! — -his bitterest 
enemy is on his heels ! ” 

“But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait 
in.” 

“ Nay, that I do not mind ! — But you might ask our 
curly host if he could let me wait in another room, where 
I could be safer from the prying eyes of any chance 


HOPE 


225 


traveller. Offer him some ready money, so that he 
should not fail to give me word the moment the tall 
Englishman returns.” 

She spolce quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking 
out her plans, ready for the worst if need be ; she would 
show no more weakness, she would prove herself worthy 
of him, who was about to give his life for the sake of his 
fellow-men. 

Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. 
Instinctively he felt that hers now was the stronger 
mind; he was willing to give himself over to her 
guidance, to become the hand, whilst she was the 
directing head. 

He went to the door of the inner room, through which 
Brogard and his wife had disappeared before, and 
knocked; as usual, he was answered by a salvo of 
muttered oaths. 

“ Hey ! friend Brogard ! ” said the young man peremp- 
torily, “ my lady would wish to rest here awhile. Could 
you give her the use of another room ? She would wish 
to be alone.” 

He took some money out of his pocket, and allowed 
it to jingle significantly in his hand. Brogard had 
opened the door, and listened, with his usual surly 
apathy, to the young man’s request. At sight of the gold, 
however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly ; he took his 
pipe from his mouth and shuffled into the room. 

He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in 
the wall. 

“ She can wait up there ! ” he said with a grant. •• It’s 
comfortable, and I have no other room.” 

“ Nothing could be better,” said Marguerite in 
English; she at once realised the advantages such a 
position hidden from view would give her. “Give him 


226 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


the money, Sir Andrew ; I shall be quite happy up there, 
and can see everything without being seen.” 

She nodded to Brogard, who condescended to go up 
to the attic, and to shake up the straw that lay on the 
floor. 

“ May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash,” 
said Sir Andrew, as Marguerite prepared in her turn to 
ascend the rickety flight of steps. “Remember this 
place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you, 
reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely 
certain that you are alone with him.” 

Even as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this 
caution : Marguerite was as calm, as clear-headed as 
any man. There was no fear of her doing anything that 
was rash. 

“Nay,” she said, with a slight attempt at cheerfulness, 
“that can I faithfully promise you. I would not 
jeopardise my husband’s life, nor yet his plans, by 
speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear, I will 
watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I 
think he needs it most.” 

Brogard had come down the steps again, and Mar- 
guerite was ready to go up to her safe retreat. 

“ I dare not kiss your hand, madam,” said Sir Andrew, 
as she began to mount the steps, “ since I am your 
lacquey, but I pray you be of good cheer. If I do not 
come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return, 
expecting to find him here.” 

“Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for 
half an hour. Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before 
that. God grant that either you or I may have seen 
Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend ! Have no 
feai for me.” 

Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that 


HOPE 


227 


led to the attic. Brogard was taking no further heed of 
her. She could make herself comfortable there or not 
as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she had 
reached the loft and sat down upon the straw. She 
pulled the tattered curtains across, and the young man 
noted that she was singularly well placed there, for seeing 
and hearing, whilst remaining unobserved. 

He had paid Brogard well ; the surly old innkeeper 
would have no object in betraying her. Then Sir 
Andrew prepared to go. At the door he turned once 
again and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged 
curtains Marguerite’s sweet face was peeping down at 
him, and the young man rejoiced to see that it looked 
serene, and even gently smiling. With a final nod of 
farewell to her, he walked out into the night 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE DEATH-TRAP 

The next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noise- 
lessly. In the room downstairs, Brogard had for a while 
busied himself with clearing the table, and re-arranging 
it for another guest. 

It was because she watched these preparations, that 
Marguerite found the time slipping by more pleasantly 
It was for Percy that this semblance of supper was 
being got ready. Evidently Brogard had a certain 
amount of icspect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed 
to take some trouble in making the place look a trifle 
less uninviting, than it had done before. 

He even produced, from some hidden recess in the old 
dresser, what actually looked like a table-cloth ; and 
when he spread it out, and saw it was full of holes, he 
shook his head dubiously for a while, then was at much 
pains so to spread it over the table, as to hide most of 
its blemishes. 

Then he got out a serviette, also old and ragged, but 
possessing some measure of cleanliness, and with this 
he carefully wiped the glasses, spoons and plates, which 
he put on the table. 

Marguerite could not help smiling to herself as she 
watched ail these preparations, which Brogard accom- 
plished to an accompaniment of muttered oaths. Clearly 
the great height and bulk of the Englishman, cr perhaps 
aa* 


THE DEATH-TRAP 


229 


the weight of his fist, had overawed this free-born citizen 
of France, or he would never have been at such trouble 
for any sacrre aristo . 

When the table was set — such as it was-~Brogard 
surveyed it with evident satisfaction. He thtn dusted 
one of the chairs with the corner of his blouse, gave a 
stir to the stock-pot, threw a fresh bundle of faggots 
on to the fire, and slouched out of the room. 

Marguerite was left alone with her reflections. She 
had spread her travelling cloak over the straw, and was 
sitting fairly comfortably, as the straw was fresh, and the 
evil odours from below came up to her only in a modified 
form. 

But, momentarily, she was almost happy ; happy 
because, when she peeped through the tattered curtains^ 
she could see a rickety chair, a torn table-cloth, a glass, 
a plate and a spoon ; that was all. But those mute and 
ugly things seemed to say to her, that they were waiting 
for Percy ; that soon, very soon, he would be here, that 
the squalid room being still empty, they would be alone 
together. 

That thought was so heavenly, that Marguerite closed 
her eyes in order to shut out everything but that. In 
a few minutes she would be alone with him ; she would 
run down the ladder, and let him see her; then he 
would take her in his arms, and she would let him see 
that, after that, she would gladly die for him, and with 
him, for earth could hold no greater happiness than that. 

And then what would happen ? She could not even 
remotely conjecture. She knew, of course, that Sir 
Andrew was right, that Percy would do everything he 
had set out to accomplish ; that she — now she was here 
— could do nothing, beyond warning him to be cautious, 
since Chauvelin himself was on his track. After having 


230 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

cautioned him, she would perforce hare to see him go 
off upon his terrible and daring mission ; she could not 
even with a word or look, attempt to keep him back. 
She would have to obey, whatever he told her to do, 
even perhaps have to efface herself, and wait, in inde- 
scribable agony, whilst he, perhaps, went to his death. 

But even that seemed less terrible to bear than the 
thought that he should never know how much she loved 
him — that at anyrate would be spared her ; the squalid 
room itself, which seemed to be waiting for him, told 
her that he would be here soon. 

Suddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of 
distant footsteps drawing near; her heart gave a wild 
leap of joy ! Was it Percy at last ? No ! the step did 
not seem quite as long, nor quite as firm as his ; she 
also thought that she could hear two distinct sets of 
footsteps. Yes ! that was it ! two men were coming this 
way. Two strangers perhaps, to get a drink, or . . . 

But she had not time to conjecture, for presently 
there was a peremptory call at the door, and the next 
moment it was violently thrown open from the outside, 
whilst a rough, commanding voice shouted, — 

“ Hey 1 Citoyen Brogard ! Hold ! ” 

Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but, through 
a hole in one of the curtains, she could observe one 
portion of the room below. 

She heard Brogard’s shuffling footsteps, as he came 
out of the inner room, muttering his usual string of 
oaths. On seeing the strangers, however, he paused in 
the middle of the room, well within range of Marguerite’s 
vision, looked at them, with even more withering 
contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests, 
and muttered, “ Sacrrree soutane ! ” 

Marguerite’s heart seemed all at once to stop beating ; 


THE DEATH-TRAP 


231 

her eyes, large and dilated, nad fastened on one of the 
newcomers, who, at this point, had taken a quick step 
forward towards Brogard. He was dressed in the 
soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes, habitual 
to the French cure , but as he stood opposite the inn- 
keeper, he threw open his soutane for a moment, 
displaying the tricolour scarf of officialism, which sight 
immediately had the effect of transforming Brogard’s 
attitude of contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness. 

It was the sight of this French cure, which seemed to 
freeze the very blood in Marguerite’s veins. She could 
not see his face, which was shaded by his broad- 
brimmed hat, but she recognized the thin, bony hands, 
the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man ! It was 
Chauvelin ! 

The horror of the situation struck her as with a 
physical blow ; the awful disappointment, the dread of 
what was to come, made her very senses reel, and she 
needed almost superhuman effort, not to fall senseless 
beneath it all. 

“A plate of soup and a bottle of wine,” said Chauvelin 
imperiously to Brogard, “ then clear out of here — under- 
stand? I want to be alone.” 

Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard 
obeyed. Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had 
been prepared for the tall Englishman, and the innkeeper 
busied himself obsequiously round him, dishing up the 
soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had 
entered with Chauvelin and whom Marguerite could not 
see, stood waiting close by the door. 

At a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogard had 
hurried back to the inner room, and the former now 
beckoned to the man who had accompanied him. 

In him Marguerite at once recognised Desgas, 


232 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

Chanvelin's secretary and confidential factotum, whom 
she had often seen in Paris, in the days gone by. He 
crossed the room, and for a moment or two listened 
attentively at the Brogards’ door. 

“Not listening ?” asked Chauvelin, curtly. 

“No, citoyen.” 

For a second Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin 
should order Desgas to search the place ; what would 
happen if she were to be discovered, she hardly dared to 
imagine. Fortunately, however, Chauvelin seemed more , 
impatient to talk to his secretary than afraid of spies, 
for he called Desgas quickly back to his side. 

“ The English schooner ? ” he asked 

“She was lost sight of at sundown, citoyen,” replied 
Desgas, “ but was then making west, towards Cap Gris 
Nez.” 

“ Ah ! — good ! — " muttered Chauvelin, “ and now, 
about Captain Jutiey? — what did he say?” 

“ He assured me that all the orders you sent him last 
week have been implicitly obeyed. All the roads which 
converge to this place have been patrolled night and day 
ever since : and the beach and cliffs have been most 
rigorously searched and guarded.” 

“ Does he know where this 1 Pere Blanchard’s hut * 
is?” 

“No, citoyen, nobody seems to know of it by that 
name. There are any amount of fishermen's huts all 
along the coast, of course . . . but . . .” 

“That’ll do. Now about to-night?” interrupted 
Chauvelin, impatiently. 

“The roads and the beach are patrolled as usual, 
citoyen, and Captain Jutiey awaits further orders.” 

“ Go back to him at once, then. Tell him to send 
reinforcement^ to the various patrols ; and especially to 
those along the beach — you understand ? ” 


THE DEATH-TRAP 


233 

Chauvelin spoke curtly and to the point, and every 
word he uttered struck at Marguerite’s heart like the 
death-knell of her fondest hopes. 

“The men,” he continued, “are to keep the sharpest 
possible look-out for any stranger who may be walking, 
riding, or driving, along the road or the beach, more 
especially for a tall stranger, whom I need not describe 
further, as probably he will be disguised; but he cannot 
very well conceal his height, except by stooping. You 
understand ? ” 

“Perfectly, citoyen,” replied Desgas. 

*• As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger, 
two of them are to keep him in view. The man who 
loses sight of the tall stranger, after he is once seen, will 
pay for his negligence with his life ; but one man is to 
ride straight back here and report to me. Is that 
clear?” 

“Absolutely clear, citoyen.” 

“Very well, then. Go and see Jutley at once. See 
the reinforcements start off for the patrol duty, then ask 
the captain to let you have half-a-dozen more men and 
bring them here with you. You can be back in ten 
minutes. Go — ” 

Desgas saluted and went to the door. 

As Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin’s 
directions to his underling, the whole of the plan for 
the capture of the Scariet Pimpernel became appallingly 
clear to her. Chauvelin wished that the fugitives should 
be left in false security, waiting in their hidden retreat 
until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter was 
to be surrounded and caught red-handed, in the very 
act of aiding and abetting royalists, who were traitors to 
the republic. Thus, if his capture were noised abroad, 
even the British Government could not legally protest 
in his favour; having plotted with the enemies of the 


234 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

French Government, France had the right to put him 
to death. 

Escape for him and them would be impossible. All 
the roads patrolled and watched, the trap well set, the 
net, wide at present, but drawing together tighter and 
tighter, until it closed upon the daring plotter, whose 
superhuman cunning even, could not rescue him from its 
meshes now. 

Desgas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more 
called him back. Marguerite vaguely wondered what 
further devilish plans he could have formed, in order 
to entrap one brave man, alone, against two-score of 
others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to 
Desgas ; she could just see his face beneath the broad- 
brimmed cure's hat. There was at that moment so 
much deadly hatred, such fiendish malice in the thin 
face and pale, small eyes, that Marguerite’s last hope 
died in her heart, for she felt that from this man she 
could expect no mercy. 

“ I had forgotten,” repeated Chauvelin, with a weird 
chuckle, as he rubbed his bony, talon-like hands one 
against the other, with a gesture of fiendish satisfaction. 
“The tall stranger may show fight. In any case no 
shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want 
that tall stranger alive ... if possible.” 

He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh 
at sight of the torture of the damned. Marguerite had 
thought that by now she had lived through the whole 
gamut of horror and anguish that human heart could 
bear ; yet now, when Desgas left the house, and she re- 
mained alone in this lonely, squalid room, with that 
fiend for company, she felt as if all that she had 
suffered was nothing compared with this. He con- 
tinued to laugh and chuckle to himself for a while, 


THE DEATH-TRAP 


*35 

rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his 
triumph. 

His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph ! 
not a loophole was left, through which the bravest, the 
most cunning man might escape. Every road guarded, 
every corner watched, and in that lonely hut somewhere 
on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting for their 
rescuer, and leading him to his death — nay ! to worse 
than death. That fiend there, in a holy man’s garb, 
was too much of a devil to allow a brave man to die 
the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of duty. 

He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who 
had so long baffled him, helpless in his power ; he wished 
to gloat over him, to enjoy his downfall, to inflict upon 
him what moral and mental torture a deadly hatred alone 
can devise. The brave eagle, captured, and with noble 
wings clipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of 
the rat. And she, his wife, who loved him, and who 
had brought him to this, could do nothing to help him. 

Nothing, save to hope for death by his side, and for 
one brief moment in which to tell him that her love — 
whole, true and passionate — was entirely his. 

Chauvelin was now sitting close to the table ; he had 
taken off his hat, and Marguerite could just see the 
outline of his thin profile and pointed chin, as he bent 
over his meagre supper. He was evidently quite con- 
tented, and awaited events with perfect calm ; he even 
seemed to enjoy Brogard’s unsavoury fare. Marguerite 
wondered how so much hatred could lurk in one human 
being against another. 

Suddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught 
her ear, which turned her very heart to stone. And yet 
that sound was not calculated to inspire anyone with 
horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound of a gay, 
fresh voice singing lustily, “God save the King !" 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE EAGLE AND THE FOX 

Marguerite’s breath stopped short ; she seemed to fee! 
her very life standing still momentarily whilst she 
listened to that voice and to that song. In the singer 
she had recognised her husband. Chauvelin, too, had 
heard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the door, 
then hurriedly took up his broad-brimmed hat and 
clapped it over his head. 

The voice drew nearer; for one brief second the wild 
desire seized Marguerite to rush down the steps and fly 
across the room, to stop that song at any cost, to beg 
the cheerful singer to fly — fly for his life, before it be too 
late. She checked the impulse just in time. Chauvelin 
would stop her before she reached the door, and, more- 
over, she had no idea if he had any soldiers posted 
within his call. Her impetuous act might prove the 
death-signal of the man she would have died to save. 

** Long to reign over us, 

God save the King 1 ” 

^ang the voice more lustily than ever. The next 
moment the door was thrown open and there was dead 
silence for a second or so. 

Marguerite could not see the door: she held her 
breath, trying to imagine what was happening. 

Percy Blakeney on entering had, of course, at once 
236 


THE EAGLE AND THE FOX *37 

caught sight of the cure at the table; his hesitation 
lasted less than five seconds, the next moment Mar- 
guerite saw his tall figure crossing the room, whilst he 
called in a loud, cheerful voice, — 

“Hello, there! no one about? Where's that fool 
Brogard ? ” 

He wore the magnificent coat and riding-suit which 
he had on when Marguerite last saw him at Richmond, 
so many hours ago. As usual, his get-up was absolutely 
irreproachable, the fine Mechlin lace at his neck and 
wrists was immaculate in its gossamer daintiness, his 
hands looked slender and white, his fair hair was care- 
fully brushed, and he carried his eyeglass with his usual 
affected gesture. In fact, at this moment, Sir Percy 
Blakeney, Bart., might have been on his way to a 
garden-party at the Prince of Wales’, instead of deliber- 
ately, cold-bloodedly running his head in a trap, set for 
him by his deadliest enemy. 

He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, 
whilst Marguerite, absolutely paralysed with horror, 
seemed unable even to breathe. 

Every moment she expected that Chauvelin would 
give a signal, that the place would fill with soldiers, that 
she would rush down and help Percy to sell his life 
dearly. As he stood there, suavely unconscious, she 
very nearly screamed out to him, — 

“Fly, Percy! — ’tis your deadly enemy!— fly before it 
be too late ! ” 

But she had not time even to do that, for the next 
moment Blakeney quietly walked to the table, and, 
jovially clapping the cure on the back, said in his own 
drawly, affected way, — 

“ Odds fish ! . . . er . . . M. Chauvelin. . • , I 
vow I never thought of meeting you here." 


238 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

Chauvelin, who had been in the very act of conveying 
loup to his mouth, fairly choked. His thin face became 
absolutely purple, and a violent fit of coughing saved 
this cunning representative of France from betraying 
the most boundless surprise he had ever experienced. 
There was no doubt that this bold move on the part of 
the enemy had been wholly unexpected, as far as he was 
concerned : and the daring impudence of it completely 
nonplussed him for the moment. 

Obviously he had not taken the precaution of having 
the inn surrounded with soldiers. Blakeney had evi- 
dently guessed that much, and no doubt his resourceful 
brain had already formed some plan by which he could 
turn this unexpected interview to account. 

Marguerite up in the loft had not moved. She had 
made a solemn promise to Sir Andrew not to speak to 
her husband before strangers, and she had sufficient 
self-control not to throw herself unreasoningly and im- 
pulsively across his plans. To sit still and watch these 
two men together was a terrible trial of fortitude. Mar- 
guerite had heard Chauvelin give the orders for the 
patrolling of all the roads. She knew that if Percy now 
left the “Chat Gris” — in whichever direction he happened 
to go — he could not go far without being sighted by 
some of Captain Jutley’s men on patrol. On the other 
hand, if he stayed, then Desgas would have time to 
come back with the half-dozen men Chauvelin had 
specially ordered. 

The trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do 
nothing but watch and wonder. The two men looked 
such a strange contrast, and of the two it was Chauvelin 
who exhibited a slight touch of fear. Marguerite knew 
him well enough to guess what was passing in his mind. 
He had no fear for his own person, although he certainly 


THE EAGLE AND THE FOX 239 

was alone in a lonely inn with a man who was powerfully 
built, and who was daring and reckless beyond the 
bounds of probability. She knew that Chauvelin would 
willingly have braved perilous encounters for the sake of 
the cause he had at heart, but what he did fear was that 
this impudent Englishman would, by knocking him down, 
double his own chances of escape ; his underlings might 
not succeed so well in capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, 
when not directed by the cunning hand and the shrewd 
brain, which had deadly hate for an incentive. 

Evidently, however, the representative of the French 
Government had nothing to fear for the moment, at the 
hands of his powerful adversary. Blakeney, with his 
most inane laugh and pleasant good-nature, was solemnly 
patting him on the back. 

“ I am so demmed sorry ...” he was saying cheer- 
fully, “so very sorry ... I seem to have upset you 
, . . eating soup, too . . . nasty, awkward thing, soup 

. . . cr . . . Begad ! — a friend of mine died once 

. . . er . . . choked . . . just like you . . . with a 

spoonful of soup.” 

And he smiled shyly, good-humouredly, down at 
Chauvelin. 

“ Odd’s life ! ” he continued, as soon as the latter had 
somewhat recovered himself, “beastly hole this . . . 
ain’t it now ? La ! you don’t mind ? ” he added, apolo- 
getically, as he sat down on a chair close to the table 
and drew the soup tureen towards him. “That fool 
Brogard seems to be asleep or something.” 

There was a second plate on the table, and he calmly 
helped himself to soup, then poured himself out a glass 
of wine. 

For a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin 
would do. His disguise was so good that perhaps he 


s 4 0 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

meant, on recovering himself, to deny his identity: but 
Chauvelin was too astute to make such an obviously 
false and childish move, and already he too had stretched 
out his hand and said pleasantly, — 

“I am indeed charmed to see you, Sir Percy. You 
must excuse me — h’m — I thought you the other side of 
the Channel. Sudden surprise almost took my breath 
away.” 

“La!” said Sir Percy, with a good-humoured grin, 
“ it did that quite, didn’t it — er — M. — er — Chaubertin ? ” 

“Pardon me — Chauvelin.” 

“ I beg pardon — a thousand times. Yes — Chauvelin 
of course. ... Er . . . I never could cotton to foreign 
names. ...” 

He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant 
good-humour, as if he had come all the way to Calais 
for the express purpose of enjoying supper at this filthy 
inn, in the company of his arch-enemy. 

For the moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did 
not knock the little Frenchman down then and there — 
and no doubt something of the sort must have darted 
through his mind, for every now and then his lazy eyes 
seemed to flash ominously, as they rested on the slight 
figure of Chauvelin, who had now quite recovered 
himself and was also calmly eating his soup. 

But the keen brain, which had planned and carried 
through so many daring plots, was too far-seeing to take 
unnecessary risks. This place, after all, might be infested 
with spies ; the innkeeper might be in Chauvelin’s pay.. 
One call on Chauvelin’s part might bring twenty men 
about Blakeney’s ears for aught he knew, and he might 
be caught and trapped before he could help or, at least, 
warn the fugitives. This he would not risk ; he meant 
to help the others, to get them safely away ; for he had 


THE EAGLE AND THE FOX 241 

pledged his word to them, and his word he would keep. 
And whilst he ate and chatted, he thought and planned, 
whilst, up in the loft, the poor, anxious woman racked 
her brain as to what she should do, and endured agonies 
of longing to rush down to him, yet not daring to move 
for fear of upsetting his plans. 

“I didn’t know,” Blakeney was saying jovially, “that 
you . . . er . . . were in holy orders.” 

“I . . . er . . . hem . . .” stammered Chauvelin. 
The calm impudence of his antagonist had evidently 
thrown him off his usual balance. 

“But, la! I should have known you anywhere,” con- 
tinued Sir Percy, placidly, as he poured himself out 
another glass of wine, “ although the wig and hat have 
changed you a bit.” 

“ Do you think so? ” 

“ Lud ! they alter a man so . . . but . . . begad ! I 
hope you don’t mind my having made the remark ? . . . 
Demmed bad form making remarks. ... I hope you 
don’t mind ? ” 

“ No, no, not at all — hem ! I hope Lady Blakeney 
is well,” said Chauvelin, hurriedly changing the topic of 
conversation. 

Blakeney, with much deliberation, finished his plate of 
soup, drank his glass of wine, and, momentarily, it seemed 
to Marguerite as if he glanced quickly all round the 
room. 

“ Quite well, thank you,” he said at last, drily. There 
was a pause, during which Marguerite could watch these 
two antagonists who, evidently in their minds, were 
measuring themselves against one another. She could 
see Percy almost full face where he sat at the table not 
ten yards from where she herself was crouching, puzzled, 
not knowing what to do, or what she should think. She 
Q 


242 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

had quite controlled her impulse by now of rushing down 
and disclosing herself to her husband A man capable 
of acting a part, in the way he was doing at the present 
moment, did not need a woman’s word to warn him to 
be cautious. 

Marguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every 
tender woman’s heart, of looking at the man she loved. 
She looked through the tattered curtain, across at the 
handsome face of her husband, in whose lazy blue eyes, 
and behind whose inane smile, she could now so plainly 
see the strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had' 
caused the Scarlet Pimpernel to be reverenced and 
trusted by his followers. “There are nineteen of us 
ready to lay down our lives for your husband, Lady 
Blakeney,” Sir Andrew had said to her; and as she 
looked at the forehead, low, but square and broad, the 
eyes, blue, yet deep-set and intense, the whole aspect of 
the man, of indomitable energy, hiding, behind a perfectly 
acted comedy, his almost superhuman strength of will 
and marvellous ingenuity, she understood the fascination 
which he exercised over his followers, for had he not also 
cast his spells over her heart and her imagination ? 

Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience 
beneath his usual urbane manner, took a quick look at 
his watch. Desgas should not be long : another two or 
three minutes, and this impudent Englishman would be 
secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain Jutley's 
most trusted men. 

“You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?” he asked 
carelessly. 

“Odd’s life, no,” replied Blakeney, with a laugh. 
“Only as far as Lille — not Paris for me . . . beastly 
uncomfortable place Paris, just now ... eh, Monsieur 
Chaubertin . . . beg pardon . . . Chauvelin ! ” 


THE EAGLE AND THE FOX 243 

“Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir 
Percy,” rejoined Chauvelin, sarcastically, “ who take no 
interest in the conflict that is raging there.” 

“ La ! you see it’s no business of mine, and our 
demmed government is all on your side of the business. 
Old Pitt daren’t say ‘Bo’ to a goose. You are in a 
hurry, sir,” he added, as Chauvelin once again took out 
his watch ; “ an appointment, perhaps. . . . I pray you 
take no heed of me. . . . My time’s my own.” 

He rose from the table and dragged a chair to the 
hearth. Once more Marguerite was terribly tempted to 
go to him, for time was getting on ; Desgas might be 
back at any moment with his men. Percy did not know 
that and ... oh ! how horrible it all was — and how 
helpless she felt. 

“I am in no hurry,” continued Percy, pleasantly, 
“ but, la ! I don’t want to spend any more time than I 
can help in this God-forsaken hole ! But, begad ! sir,” 
he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his 
watch for the third time, “that watch of yours won’t go 
any faster for all the looking you give it. You are 
expecting a friend, maybe?” 

“Aye — a friend ! ” 

“Not a lady — I trust, Monsieur 1’AbW,” laughed 
Blakeney; “surely the holy Church does not allow? 
. . . eh ? . . . what ! But, I say, come by the fire . . . 
it’s getting demmed cold.” 

He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making 
the logs blaze in the old hearth. He seemed in no 
hurry to go, and apparently was quite unconscious of 
his immediate danger. He dragged another chair to the 
fire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite 
beyond control, sat down beside the hearth, in such a 
way as to command a view of the door. Desga* had 


244 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. It was quite 
plain to Marguerite's aching senses, that as soon as he 
arrived, Chauvelin would abandon all his other plans 
with regard to the fugitives, and capture this impudent 
Scarlet Pimpernel at once. 

“ Hey, M. Chauvelin,” the latter was saying airily, 
“ tell me, I pray you, is your friend pretty ? Demmcd 
smart these little French women sometimes — what? 
But I protest I need not ask,” he added, as he carelessly 
strode back towards the supper-table. “In matters of 
taste the Church has never been backward. ... Eh ? ” 

But Chauvelin was not listening. His every faculty 
was now concentrated on that door through which 
presently Desgas would enter. Marguerite's thoughts, 
too, were centred there, for her ears had suddenly 
caught, through the stillness of the night, the sound of 
numerous and measured treads some distance away. 

It was Desgas and his men. Another three minutes 
and they would be here ! Another three minutes and 
the awful thing would have occurred : the brave eagle 
will have fallen in the ferret’s trap ! She would have 
moved now and screamed, but she dared not; for 
whilst she heard the soldiers approaching, she was 
looking at Percy and watching his every movement. 
He was standing by the table whereon the remnants of 
the supper, plates, glasses, spoons, salt and pepper-pots 
were scattered pell-mell. His back was turned to 
Chauvelin and he was still prattling along in his own 
affected and inane way, but from his pocket he had 
taken his snuff-box, and quickly and suddenly he emptied 
the contents of the pepper-pot into it. 

Then he again turned with an inane laugh ta 
Chauvelin, — 

“ Eh ? Did you speak, sir ? ” 


THE EAGLE AND THE FOX 245 

Chauvelin had been too intent on listening to the 
sound of those approaching footsteps, to notice what his 
cunning adversary had been doing. He now pulled 
himself together, trying to look unconcerned in the very 
midst of his anticipated triumph. 

“ No,” he said presently, “ that is — as you were saying, 
Sir Percy—?” 

“ I was saying,” said Blakeney, going up to Chauvelin, 
by the fire, “ that the Jew in Piccadilly has sold me 
better snuff this time than I have ever tasted. Will you 
honour me, Monsieur l’Abb£ ? ” 

He stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless, 
dibonnatr way, holding out his snuff-box to his arch- 
enemy. 

Chauvelin, who, as he told Marguerite once, had seen 
a trick or two in his day, had never dreamed of this one. 
With one ear fixed on those fast-approaching footsteps, 
one eye turned to that door where Desgas and his men 
would presently appear, lulled into false security by the 
impudent Englishman’s airy manner, he never even re- 
motely guessed the trick which was being played upon 
him. 

He took a pinch of snuff. 

Only he, who has ever by accident sniffed vigorously a 
dose of pepper, can have the faintest conception of the 
hopeless condition in which such a sniff would reduce 
any human being. 

Chauvelin felt as if his head would burst — sneeze after 
sneeze seemed nearly to choke him ; he was blind, deaf, 
and dumb for the moment, and during that moment 
Blakeney quietly, without the slightest haste, took up 
his hat, took some money out of his pocket, which he 
left on the table, then calmly stalked out of the room ! 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE JEW 

It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered 
senses ; the whole of this last short episode had taken 
place in less than a minute, and Desgas and the soldiers 
were still about two hundred yards away from the “ Chat 
Gris.” 

When she realised what had happened, a curious mix- 
ture of joy and wonder filled her heart. It all was so 
neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin was still absolutely help- 
less, far more so than he could even have been under a 
blow from the fist, for now he could neither see, nor 
hear, nor speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly 
slipped through his fingers. 

Blakeney was gone, obviously to try and join ^he 
fugitives at the Pere Blanchard’s hut. For the moment, 
true, Chauvelin was helpless ; for the moment the 
daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been caught by 
Desgas and his men. But all the roads and the beach 
were patrolled. Every place was watched, and every 
stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go, thus 
arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted 
and followed ? 

Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone 
down to him sooner, and given him that word of warning 
and of love which, perhaps, after all, he needed. He 
could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given 
for his capiure, and even now, perhaps . . . 

M 


247 


THE JEW 

But before all these horrible thoughts had taken con- 
crete form in her brain, she heard the grounding of arms 
outside, close to the door, and Desgas’ voice shouting 
“ Halt ! ” to his men. 

Chauvelin had partially recovered ; his sneezing had 
become less violent, and he had struggled to his feet. 
He managed to reach the door just as Desgas’ knock 
was heard on the outside. 

Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secre- 
tary could say a word, he had managed to stammer 
between two sneezes — 

“The tail stranger — quick! — did any of you see 
him ? ” 

“ Where, citoyen ? ” asked Desgas, in surprise. 

“ Here, man ! through that door ! not five minutes 
ago.” 

“ We saw nothing, citoyen ! The moon is not yet up, 
and . . .” 

“And you are just five minutes too late, my friend,” 
said Chauvelin, with concentrated fury. 

“Citoyen . . . I . . .” 

••You did what I ordered you to do,” said Chauvelin, 
with impatience. “ I know that, but you were a precious 
long time about it. Fortunately, there’s not much harm 
done, or it had fared ill with you, Citoyen Desgas.” 

Desgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage 
and hatred in his superior’s whole attitude. 

“ The tall stranger, citoyen — ” he stammered. 

“Was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having 
supper at that table. Damn his impudence ! For 
obvious reasons, I dared not tackle him alone. Brogard 
is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to 
have the strength of a bullock, and so he slipped away 
under your very nose.” 


248 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

** He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen." 

“Ah?” 

“Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements foi 
the patrol duty : twenty went down to the beach. He 
again assured me that the watch has been constant all 
day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the beach, 
or reach a boat, without being sighted.” 

“ That’s good. — Do the men know their work ? ” 

“ They have had very clear orders, citoyen : and I 
myself spoke to those who were about to start. They 
are to shadow — as secretly as possible — any stranger 
they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he 
would disguise his height.” 

“ In no case to detain such a person, of course,” said 
Chauvelin, eagerly. “ That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel 
would slip through clumsy fingers. We must let him 
get to the P6re Blanchard’s hut now; there surround 
and capture him.” 

“ The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as 
soon as a tall stranger has been sighted, he must be 
shadowed, whilst one man is to turn straight back and 
report to you.” 

“ That is right,” said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, 
well pleased. 

“ I have further news for you, citoyen.” 

“ What is it?” 

“A tall Englishman had a long conversation about 
three-quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by 
name, who lives not ten paces from here.” 

“Yes — and?” queried Chauvelin, impatiently. 

“The conversation was all about a horse and cart, 
which the tall Englishman wished to hire, and which 
was to have been ready for him by eleven o’clock.” 

“ It is past that now. Where does that Reuben live ? " 


249 


THE JEW 

M A few minutes’ walk from this door.” 

11 Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has 
driven off in Reuben’s cart.” 

“ Yes, citoyen.” 

Desgas went to give the necessary orders to one of 
the men. Not a word of this conversation between him 
and Chauvelin had escaped Marguerite, and every word 
they had spoken seemed to strike at her heart, with 
terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding. 

She had come all this way, and with such high hopes 
and firm determination to help her husband, and so far 
she had been able to do nothing, but to watch, with a 
heart breaking with anguish, the meshes of the deadly 
aet closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel. 

He could not now advance many steps, without spying 
eyes to track and denounce him. Her own helplessness 
struck her with the terrible sense of utter disappoint- 
ment. The possibility of being of the slightest use to her 
husband had become almost nil, and her only hope 
rested in being allowed to share his fate, whatever it 
might ultimately be. 

For the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the 
man she loved again, had become a remote one. Still, 
she was determined to keep a close watch over his 
enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart, that whilst she 
kept Chauvelin in sight, Percy’s fate might still be hang- 
ing in the balance. 

Desgas had left Chauvelin moodily pacing up and 
down the room, whilst he himself waited outside for the 
return of the man, whom he had sent in search of 
Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvelin 
was evidently devoured with impatience. Apparently 
he trusted no one : this last trick played upon him by the 
daring Scarlet Pimpernel had made him suddenly doubt- 


250 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

ful of success, unless he himself was there to watch, 
direct and superintend the capture of this impudent 
Englishman. 

About five minutes later, Desgas returned, followed by 
an elderly Jew. in a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn 
greasy across the shoulders. His red hair, which he wore 
after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the corkscrew 
curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with 
grey— a general coating of grime, about his cheeks and 
his chin, gave him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome 
appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his 
race affected in mock humility in past centuries, before 
the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith, 
and he walked behind Desgas with the peculiar shuffling 
gait, which has remained the characteristic of the Jew 
trader in continental Europe to this day. 

Chauvelin, who had all the Frenchman’s prejudice 
against the despised race, motioned to the fellow to keep 
at a respectful distance. The group of the three men 
were standing just underneath the hanging oil-lamp, and 
Marguerite had a clear view of them all. 

“ Is this the man ? ” asked Chauvelin. 

“No, citoyen,” replied Desgas, “ Reuben could not be 
found, so presumably his cart has gone with the stranger: 
but this man here seems to know something, which he is 
willing to sell for a consideration.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust 
from the loathsome specimen of humanity before him. 

The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly 
on one side, leaning on a thick knotted staff, his greasy, 
broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his grimy 
face, waiting for the noble Excellency to deign to put 
some questions to him. 

“The citoyen tells me,” said Chauvelin peremptorily 


251 


THE JEW 

to him, ** that you know something of my friend, the tall 
Englishman, whom I desire to meet. . . . Morbleui 
keep your distance, man,” he added hurriedly, as the 
Jew took a quick and eager step forward. 

“Yes, your Excellency,” replied the Jew, who spoke 
the language with that peculiar lisp, which denotes Eastern 
origin, “ I and Reuben Goldstein met a tall Englishman, 
on the road, close by here this evening.” 

“ Did you speak to him ? ” 

“ He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to 
know if he could hire a horse and cart to go down along 
the St Martin Road, to a place he wanted to reach 
to-night.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I did not say anything,” said the Jew in an injured 
tone, “ Reuben Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son 
of Belial 

“Cut that short, man,” interrupted Chauvelin, roughly, 
“and go on with your story.” 

“ He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency; 
when I was about to offer the wealthy Englishman my 
horse and cart, to take him wheresoever he chose, 
Reuben had already spoken, and offered his half-starved 
nag, and his broken-down cart.” 

“ And what did the Englishman do ? ” 

“ He listened to Reuben Goldstein, your Excellency, 
and put his hand in his pocket then and there, and 
took out a handful of gold, which he showed to that 
descendant of Belzebub, telling him that all that would 
be his, if the horse and cart were ready for him by 
eleven o'clock.” 

“ And, of course, the horse and cart were ready ? ” 

“ Well ! they were ready in a manner, so to speak, 
your Excellency. Reuben's nag was lame as usual ; she 


252 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

refused to budge at first. It was only after a time and 
with plenty of kxks, that she at last could be made to 
move,” said the Jew with a malicious chuckle. 

“Then they started?” 

“Yes, they started about five minutes ago. I was 
disgusted with that stranger’s folly. An Englishman 
too ! — He ought to have known Reuben’s nag was not 
fit to drive.” 

“ But if he had no choice ? ** 

“No choice, your Excellency?’* protested the Jew, in 
a rasping voice, “ did I not repeat to him a dozen times, 
that my horse and cart would take him quicker, and 
more comfortably than Reuben’s bag of bones. He 
would not listen. Reuben is such a liar, and has such 
insinuating ways. The stranger was deceived. If he 
was in a hurry, he would have had better value for his 
money by taking my cart.” 

“ You have a horse and cart too, then ? ” asked 
Chauvelin, peremptorily. 

“Aye! that I have, your Excellency, and if your 
Excellency wants to drive ...” 

“ Do you happen to know which way my friend went 
in Reuben Goldstein’s cart ? ” 

Thoughtfully the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Mar- 
guerite’s heart was beating well-nigh to bursting. She 
had heard the peremptory question ; she looked anxiously 
at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath the 
shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Vaguely she felt 
somehow as if he held Percy’s fate in his long, dirty 
hands. 

There was a long pause, whilst Chauvelin frowned 
impatiently, at the stooping figure before him : at last the 
Jew slowly put his hand in his breast pocket, and drew 
out from its capacious depths, a number of silver coins 


I 


THE JEW 253 

He gazed at them thoughtfully, then remarked, in a 
quiet tone of voice, — 

“This is what the tall stranger gave me, when he drove 
away with Reuben, for holding my tongue about him, 
and his doings.” 

Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

“ How much is there there ? ” he asked. 

“ Twenty francs, your Excellency,” replied the Jew, 
** and I have been an honest man all my life.” 

Chauvelin without further comment took a few pieces 
of gold out of his own pocket, and leaving them in the 
palm of his hand, he allowed them to jingle as he held 
them out towards the Jew. 

“ How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my 
hand ?” he asked quietly. 

Evidently he had no desire to terrorize the man, but 
to conciliate him, for his own purposes, for his manner 
was pleasant and suave. No doubt he feared that 
threats of the guillotine, and various other persuasive 
methods of that type, might addle the old man’s brains, 
and that he would be more likely to be useful through 
greed of gain, than through terror of death. 

The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the 
gold in his interlocutor’s hand. 

“At least five, I should say, your Excellency,” he 
replied obsequiously. 

“ Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue 
of yours ? ” 

“ What does your Excellency wish to know ? ” 

“ Whether your horse and cart can take me to where 
I can find my friend the tall stranger, who has driven ofl 
In Reuben Goldstein’s cart ? ” 

“ My horse and cart can take your Honour there, where 
you please.” 


254 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

“ To a place called the Pire Blanchard’s hut ? ” 

“Your Honour has guessed?” said the Jew is 
astonishment. 

“ You know the place ? " 

“ I know it, your Honour.” 

“ Which road leads to it ? ” 

“ The St Martin Road, your Honour, then a footpath 
from there to the cliffs.” 

“You know the road?” repeated Chauvelin, roughly. 

“ Every stone, every blade of grass, your Honour,” 
replied the Jew quietly. 

Chauvelin without another word threw the five pieces 
of gold one by one before the Jew, who knelt down, and 
on his hands and knees struggled to collect them. One 
rolled away, and he had some trouble to get it, for it a&d 
lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin quietly 
waited while the old man scrambled on the floor, to find 
the piece of gold. 

When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said, — 

“ How soon can your horse and cart be ready ? ” 

“They are ready now, your Honour.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“Not ten metres from this door. Will your 
Excellency deign to look ? ” 

“ I don't want to see it How far can you drive me 
in it ? ” 

“ As far as the P£re Blanchard’s hut, your Honour, and 
further than Reuben’s nag took your friend. I am sure 
that, not two leagues from here, we shall come across 
that wily Reuben, his nag, his cart and the tall stranger 
all in a heap in the middle of the road.” 

“ How far is the nearest village from here ? ” 

“ On the road which the Englishman took, Miquelon 
k the nearest village, not two leagues from here.” 


THE JEW 255 

44 There he could get fresh conveyance, if he wanted 
to go further ? ” 

44 He could — if he ever got so far.” 

44 Can you ? ” 

“Will your Excellency try?” said the Jew simply. 

44 That is my intention,” said Chauvelin very quietly, 
M but remember, if you have deceived me, I shall tell 
off two of my most stalwart soldiers to give you such a 
beating, that your breath will perhaps leave your ugly 
body for ever. But if we find my friend the tall 
Englishman, either on the road or at the P£re Blanchard’s 
hut, there will be ten more gold pieces for you. Do you 
accept the bargain ? ” 

The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He 
looked at the money in his hand, then at his stern 
interlocutor, and at Desgas, who had stood silently be- 
hind him all this while. After a moment’s pause, he 
said deliberately, — 

44 1 accept.” 

44 Go and wait outside then,” said Chauvelin, 44 and 
remember to stick to your bargain, or by Heaven, I will 
keep to mine.” 

With a final, most abject and cringing bow, the old 
Jew shuffled out of the room. Chauvelin seemed 
pleased with his interview, for he rubbed his hands 
together, with that usual gesture of his, of malignant 
satisfaction. 

14 My coat and boots,” he said to Desgas at last. 

Desgas went to the door, and apparently gave the 
necessary orders, for presently a soldier entered, carry- 
ing Chauvelin’s coat, boots, and hat. 

He took off his soutane, beneath which he was 
wearing close-fitting breeches and a cloth waistcoat, and 
began changing his attire. 

44 You, citoyen, in the meanwhile,” he said to Desga* 


256 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

M go back to Captain Jutley as fast as you can, and 
tell him to let you have another dozen men, and bring 
them with you along the St Martin Road, where I 
daresay you will soon overtake the Jew’s cart with 
myself in it. There will be hot work presently, if I 
mistake not, in the Pere Blanchard’s hut. We shall 
corner our game there, I’ll warrant, for this impudent 
Scarlet Pimpernel has had the audacity — or the 
stupidity, I hardly know which — to adhere to his 
original plans. He has gone to meet de Tournay, St 
Just and the other traitors, which for the moment, I 
thought, perhaps, he did not intend to do. When we 
find them, there will be a band of desperate men at bay. 
Some of our men will I presume be put hors de combat. 
These royalists are good swordsmen, and the English- 
man is devilish cunning, and looks very powerful. Still, 
we shall be five against one at least. You can follow 
the cart closely with your men, all along the St Martin 
Road, through Miquelon. The Englishman is ahead of 
us, and not likely to look behind him.” 

Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had 
completed his change of attire. The priest’s costume 
had been laid aside, and he was once more dressed in 
his usual daik, tight-fitting clothes. At last he took up 
his hat. 

“ I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into 
your hands,” he said with a chuckle, as with unwonted 
familiarity he took Desgas’ arm, and led him towards 
the door. “We won’t kill him outright, eh, friend 
Desgas? The Pere Blanchard’s hut is— an I mistake 
not — a lonely spot upon the beach, and our men will 
enjoy a bit of rough sport there with the wounded fox. 
Choose your men well, friend Desgas ... of the sort 
who would enjoy that type of sport — eh ? We must see 


2 57 


THE JEW 

that Scarlet Pimpernel wither a bit — what ? — shrink and 
tremble, eh? . . . before we finally . . .*■ — he made an 
expressive gesture, whilst he laughed a low, evil laugh, 
which filled Marguerite’s soul with sickening horror. 

“ Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas,” he said 
once more, as he led hit secretary finally out of the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


ON THE TRACK 

Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. 
The last sounds outside the “ Chat Gris ” had died away 
hi the night She had heard Desgas giving orders to 
his men, and then starting off towards the fort, to get a 
reinforcement of a dozen more men : six were not 
thought sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman, 
whose resourceful brain was even more dangerous than 
his valour and his strength. 

Then a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky 
voice, again, evidently shouting to his nag, then the 
rumble of wheels, and noise of a rickety cart bumping 
over the rough road. 

Inside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his 
wife, terrified of Chauvelin, had given no sign of life; 
they hoped to be forgotten, and at anyrate to remain 
unperceived : Marguerite could not even hear their usual 
volleys of muttered oaths. 

She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly 
slipped down the broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak 
closely round her and slipped out of the inn. 

The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at anyrate 
to hide her dark figure from view, whilst her keen ears 
kept count of the sound of the cart going on ahead. She 
hoped by keeping veil within the shadow of the ditches 
which lined the road, that she would not be seen by Desgas 1 


ON THE TRACK 


259 

men, when they approached, or by the patrols, which 
she concluded werr still on duty. 

Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary 
journey, alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three 
leagues to Miquelon, and then on to the Pfcre Blanchard’s 
hut, wherever that fatal spot might be, probably over 
rough roads : she cared not. 

The Jew’s nag could not get on very fast, and though 
she was weary with mental fatigue and nerve strain, she 
knew that she could easily keep up with it, on a hilly 
road, where the poor beast, who was sure to be half- 
starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent 
rests. The road lay some distance from the sea, 
bordered on either side by shrubs and stunted trees, 
sparsely covered with meagre foliage, all turning away 
from the North, with their branches looking in the semi- 
darkness, like stiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual 
wind. 

Fortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep 
between the clouds, and Marguerite hugging the edge 
of the road, and keeping close to the low line of shrubs, 
was fairly safe from view. Everything around her was 
so still : only from far, very far away, there came like a 
long, soft moan, the sound of the distant sea. 

The air was keen and full of brine ; after that enforced 
period of inactivity, inside the evil-smelling, squalid inn, 
Marguerite would have enjoyed the sweet scent of this 
autumnal night, and the distant melancholy rumble of 
the waves ; she would have revelled in the calm and 
stillness of this lonely spot, a calm, broken only at 
intervals by the strident and mournful cry of some 
distant gull, and by the creaking of the wheels, some way 
down the road : she would have loved the cool atmo- 
sphere, the peaceful immensity of Nature, in this lonely 


260 the scarlet pimpernel 


part of the coast : but her heart was too full of cruel fore* 
boding, of a great ache and longing a being, who had 
become infinitely dear to her. 

Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought 
it safest not to walk near the centre of the road, and she 
found it difficult to keep up a sharp pace along the 
muddy incline. She even thought it best not to keep 
too near to the cart; everything was so still, that the 
rumble of the wheels could not fail to be a safe 
guide. 

The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim 
lights of Calais lay far behind, and on this road there 
was not a sign of human habitation, not even the hut of 
a fisherman or of a woodcutter anywhere near * far away 
on her right was the edge of the cliff, below it the rough 
beach, against which the incoming tide was dashing itself 
with its constant, distant murmur. And ahead the 
rumble of the wheels, bearing an implacable enemy to his 
triumph. 

Marguerite wondered at what particular spot, on this 
lonely coast, Percy could be at this moment Not very 
far surely, for he had had less than a quarter of an hour’s 
start of Chauvelin. She wondered if he knew, that in 
this cool, ocean-scented bit of France, there lurked many 
spies, all eager to sight his tall figure, to track him to 
where his unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then, 
to close the net over him and them. 

Chauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew’s 
vehicle, was nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed 
his hands together, with content, as he thought of the 
web which he had woven, and through which that 
ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to 
escape. As the time went on, and the old Jew drove 
him leisurely but surely along the dark road, he felt more 


ON THE TRACK 


261 


and more eager for the grand finale of this exciting chase 
after the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel. 

The capture of the audacious plotter *<>uld be the 
finest leaf in Citoyen Chauvelin’s wreath of glory. 
Caught, red-handed, on the spot, in the very act of 
aiding and abetting the traitors against the Republic of 
France, the Englishman could claim no protection from 
his own country. Chauvelin, had, in any case, fully 
made up his mind that all intervention should come too 
late. 

Never for a moment, did the slightest remorse enter his 
heart, as to the terrible position in which he had placed 
the unfortunate wife, who had unconsciously betrayed 
her husband. As a matter of fact, Chauvelin had ceased 
even to think of her : she had been a useful tool, that 
was all. 

The Jew’s lean nag did little more than walk. She 
was going along at a slow jog trot, and her driver had 
to give her long and frequent halts. 

“ Are we a long way yet from Miquelon ? ” asked 
Chauvelin from time to time. 

44 Not very far, your Honour/ w? the uniform placid 
reply. 

44 We have not yet come across your friend and mine, 
lying in a heap in the roadway,” was Chauvelin’s 
sarcastic comment. 

“Patience, noble Excellency/ rejoined the son of 
Moses, 44 they are ahead of us. I can see the imprint of 
the cart wheels, driven by that traitor, that son of the 
Amalekite.” 

44 You are sure of the road ? ** 

44 As sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold 
pieces in the noble Excellency’s pockets, which I trust 
will presently be mine." 


262 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


“ As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend the 
tall stranger, they will certainly be yours.” 

“Hark, what was that?” said the Jew suddenly. 

Through the stillness, which had been absolute, there 
could now be heard distinctly the sound of horses’ hoofs 
on the muddy road. 

“ They are soldiers,” he added in an awed whisper. 

M Stop a moment, I want to hear,” said Chauvelin. 

Marguerite had also heard the sound of galloping 
hoofs, coming towards the cart, and towards herself. For 
some time she had been on the alert thinking that 
Desgas and his squad would soon overtake them, but 
these came from the opposite direction, presumably from 
Miquelon. The darkness lent her sufficient cover. She 
had perceived that the cart had stopped, and with 
utmost caution, treading noiselessly on the soft road, she 
crept a little nearer. 

Her heart was beating fast, she was trembling in every 
limb ; already she had guessed what news these mounted 
men would bring : “ Every stranger on these roads or on 
the beach must be shadowed, especially if he be tall or 
stoops as if he would disguise his height ; when sighted 
a mounted messenger must at once ride back and re- 
port.” Those had been Chauvelin’s orders. Had then 
the tall stranger been sighted, and was this the mounted 
messenger, come to bring the great news, that the hunted 
hare had run its head into the noose at last ? 

Marguerite, realizing that the cart had come to a 
standstill, managed to slip nearer to it in the darkness; she 
crept close up, hoping to get within earshot, to hear what 
the messenger had to say. 

She heard the quick words of challenge — 

“Liberty, Fraternity, Egalityi” then Chauvelin't 
quick query: — 


ON THE TRACK 


263 


"What news?” 

Two men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle. 

Marguerite could see them silhouetted against the 
midnight sky. She could hear their voices, and the 
snorting of their horses, and now, behind her, some 
little distance off, the regular and measured tread of a 
body of advancing men : Desgas and his soldiers. 

There had been a long pause, during which, no doubt, 
Chauvelin satisfied the men as to his identity, for pre- 
sently, questions and answers followed each other in 
quick succession. 

"You have seen the stranger?” asked Chauvelin, 
eagerly. 

"No, citoyen, we have seen no tall stranger; we came 
by the edge of the cliff.” 

"Then?” 

"Less than a quarter of a league beyond Miquelon, 
we came across a rough construction of wood, which 
looked like the hut of a fisherman, where he might keep 
his tools and nets. When we first sighted it, it seemed 
to be empty, and, at first we thought that there was 
nothing suspicious about it, until we saw some smoke 
issuing through an aperture at the side. I dismounted 
and crept close to it. It was then empty, but in one 
corner of the hut, there was a charcoal fire, and a couple 
of stools were also in the hut. I consulted with my 
comrades, and we decided that they should take cover 
with the horses, well out of sight, and that I should 
remain on the watch, which I did.” 

"Well ! and did you see anything?” 

" About half an hour later, I heard voices, citoyen, 
and presently, two men came along towards the edge of 
the cliff ; they seemed to me to have come from the 
Lille Road. One was young, the other quite old They 


264 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

were talking in a whisper, to one another, and I could 
not hear what they said.” 

One was young, the other quite old. Marguerite’s 
aching heart almost stopped beating as she listened : 
was the young one Armand ? — her brother ? — and the 
old one de Tournay — were they the two fugitives who, 
unconsciously, were used as a decoy, to entrap their 
fearless and noble rescuer. 

“ The two men presently went into the hut,” continued 
the soldier, whilst Marguerite’s aching nerves seemed to 
catch the sound of Chauvelin’s triumphant chuckle, 
“ and I crept nearer to it then. The hut is very roughly 
built, and I caught snatches of their conversation.” 

“ Yes ? — Quick ! — What did you hear ? ” 

“ The old man asked the young one, if he were sure 
that was the right place. 1 Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘ ’tis the 
place sure enough,’ and by the light of the charcoal fire 
he showed to his companion a paper, which he carried. 
‘Here is the plan,’ he said, ‘which he gave me before I 
left London. We were to adhere strictly to that plan, 
unless I had contrary orders, and I have had none. Here 
is the road we followed, see . . . here the fork . . . here 
we cut across the St Martin Road . . . and here is the 
footpath which brought us to the edge of the cliff,’ I 
must have made a slight noise then, for the young man 
came to the door of the hut, and peered anxiously all 
*<$und him. When he again joined his companion, they 
whispered so low, that I could no longer hear them.” 

“ Well ? — and ? ” asked Chauvelin, impatiently. 

“ There were six of us altogether, patrolling that part 
of the beach, so we consulted together, and thought it 
best that four should remain behind and keep the hut in 
sight, and I and my comrade rode back at once to 
make report of what we had seen.” 


ON THE TRACK 


265 


w You saw nothing of the tall stranger ?" 

“Nothing, citoyen.” 

“ If your comrades see him, what would they do ? ” 

“Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he 
showed signs of escape, or any boat came in sight, they 
would close in on him, and, if necessary, they would 
shoot : the firing would bring the rest of the patrol to 
the spot. In any case they would not let the stranger 

go*” 

“Aye! but I did not want the stranger hurt — not 
just yet,” murmured Chauvelin, savagely, “ but there, 
you’ve done your best. The Fates grant that I may not 
be too late . . 

“ We met half a dozen men just now, who have been 
patrolling this road for several hours.” 

“Well?” 

“They have seen no stranger either.” 

“Yet he is on ahead somewhere, in a cart or else ... I 
Here ! there is not a moment to lose. How far is that 
hut from here ? ” 

“ About a couple of leagues, citoyen.” 

"You can find it again? — at once? — without hesita- 
tion ? ” 

“ I have absolutely no doubt, citoyen.” 

“ The footpath, to the edge of the cliff? — Even in the 
dark?” 

“ It is not a dark night, citoyen, and I know I can find 
my way,” repeated the soldier firmly. 

“ Fall in behind then. Let your comrade take both 
your horses back to Calais. You won’t want them. 
Keep beside the cart, and direct the Jew to drive straight 
ahead ; then stop him, within a quarter of a league of the 
footpath ; see that he takes the most direct road.” 

Whilst Chauvelin spoke, Desgas and his men were 


266 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


fast approaching, and Marguerite could hear their foot 
steps within a hundred yards behind her now. She 
thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and un- 
necessary too, as she had heard enough. She seemed 
suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering: 
her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have become 
numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminat- 
ing in this awful despair. 

For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. 
Within two short leagues of this spot, the fugitives were 
waiting for their brave deliverer. He was on his way, 
somewhere on this lonely road, and presently he would 
join them ; then the well-laid trap would close, two dozen 
men, led by one, whose hatred was as deadly as his 
cunning was malicious, would close round the small 
band of fugitives, and their daring leader. They would 
all be captured. Armand, according to Chauvelin’s 
pledged word would be restored to her, but her husband, 
Percy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to 
love and worship more and more, he would fall into the 
hands of a remorseless enemy, who had no pity for a 
brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a noble 
soul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning 
antagonist, who had baffled him so long. 

She heard the soldier giving a few brief directions to 
the Jew, then she retired quickly to the edge of the road, 
and cowered behind some low shrubs, whilst Desgas and 
his men came up. 

All fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they 
all started down the dark road. Marguerite waited until 
she reckoned that they were well outside the range of 
earshot, then, she too in the darkness, which suddenly 
seemed to have become more intense, crept noiselessly 
along. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

the piRE Blanchard’s hut 

As in a dream, Marguerite followed on ; the web was 
drawing more and more tightly every moment round 
the beloved life, which had become dearer than all. 
To see her husband once again, to tell him how she 
had suffered, how much she had wronged, and how 
little understood him, had become now her only aim. 
She had abandoned all hope of saving him : she saw 
him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and, in despair, 
she gazed round her into the darkness, and wondered 
whence he would presently come, to fall into the death- 
trap which his relentless enemy had prepared for him. 

The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder ; 
the occasional dismal cry of an owl, or a sea-gull, filled 
her with unspeakable horror. She thought of the 
ravenous beasts — in human shape — who lay in wait 
for their prey, and destroyed them, as mercilessly as 
any hungry wolf, for the satisfaction of their own 
appetite of hate. Marguerite was not afraid of the 
darkness, she only feared that man, on ahead, who 
was sitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart, 
nursing thoughts of vengeance, which would have made 
the very demons in hell chuckle with delight. 

Her feet were sore. Her knees shook under her, 
from sheer bodily fatigue. For days now she had 
lived in a wild turmoil of excitement ; she had not had 


268 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


a quiet rest for three nights ; now, she had walked on 
a slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her deter- 
mination never swerved for a moment. She would see 
her husband, tell him all, and, if he was ready to forgive 
the crime, which she had committed in her blind 
ignorance, she would yet have the happiness of dying 
by his side. 

She must have walked on almost in a trance, instinct 
alone keeping her up, and guiding her in the wake of 
the enemy, when suddenly her ears, attuned to the 
slightest sound, by that same blind instinct, told her 
that the cart had stopped, and that the soldiers had 
halted. They had come to their destination. No 
doubt on the right, somewhere close ahead, was the 
footpath that led to the edge of the cliff and to the hut. 

Heedless of any risks, she crept quite close up to 
where Chauvelin stood, surrounded by his little troop : 
he had descended from the cart, and was giving some 
orders to the men. These she wanted to hear: what 
little chance she yet had, of being useful to Percy, 
consisted in hearing absolutely every word of hia 
enemy’s plans. 

The spot where all the party had halted must have lain 
some eight hundred metres from the coast ; the sound 
of the sea came only very faintly, as from a distance. 
Chauvelin and Desgas, followed by the soldiers, had 
turned off sharply to the right of the road, apparently 
on to the footpath, which led to the cliffs. The Jew 
had remained on the road, with his cart and nag. 

Marguerite, with infinite caution, and literally crawling 
on her hands and knees, had also turned off to the 
right : to accomplish this she had to creep through the 
rough, low shrubs, trying to make as little noise ag 
possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands 


THE PERE BLANCHARD’S HUT 269 

against the dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without 
being seen or heard. Fortunately — as is usual in this 
part of France — the footpath was bordered by a low, 
rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch, filled with 
coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find 
shelter; she was quite hidden from view, yet could 
contrive to get within three yards of where Chauvelin 
stood, giving orders to his men. 

“Now,” he was saying in a low and peremptory 
whisper, “where is the Pere Blanchard’s hut?” 

“About eight hundred metres from here, along the 
footpath,” said the soldier who had lately been 
directing the party, “and half-way down the cliff.” 

“Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin 
to descend the cliff, you shall creep down to the hut, 
as noiselessly as possible, and ascertain if the traitor 
royalists are there? Do you understand?” 

“I understand, citoyen.” 

“Now listen very attentively, all of you,” continued 
Chauvelin, impressively, and addressing the soldiers 
collectively, “for after this we may not be able to 
exchange another word, so remember every syllable I 
utter, as if your very lives depended on your memory. 
Perhaps they do,” he added drily. 

“We listen, citoyen,” said Desgas, “and a soldier of 
the Republic never forgets an order.” 

“ You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep 
inside. If an Englishman is there with those traitors, a 
man who is tall above the average, or who stoops as if 
he would disguise his height, then give a sharp, quick 
whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of you,” he 
added, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively, 
“ then quickly surround and rush into the hut, and each 
seize one of the men there, before they have time to 


270 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

draw their firearms; if any of them struggle, shoot at 
their legs or arms, but on no account kill the tall man. 
Do you understand ? ” 

“We understand, citoyen.” 

“ The man who is tall above the average, is probably 
also strong above the average : it will take four or five 
of you at least to overpower him.” 

There was a little pause, then Chauvelin continued, — 

“ If the royalist traitors are still alone, which is more 
than likely to be the case, then warn your comrades who 
are lying in wait there, and all of you creep and take 
cover behind the rocks and boulders round the hut, and 
wait there, in dead silence, until the tall Englishman 
arrives; then only rush the hut, when he is safely within 
its doors. But remember, that you must be as silent as 
the wolf is at night, when he prowls around the pens. 
I do not wish those royalists to be on the alert — the 
firing of a pistol, a shriek or call on their part would be 
sufficient, perhaps, to warn the tali personage to keep 
clear of the cliffs, and of the hut, and,” he added em- 
phatically, “it is the tall Englishman whom it is your 
duty to capture to-night.” 

“ You shall be implicitly obeyed, citoyen.” 

“Then get along as noiselessly as possible, and I 
will follow you.” 

“What about the Jew, citoyen?” asked Desgas, as 
silently like noiseless shadows, one by one the soldiers 
began to creep along the rough and narrow footpath. 

“ Ah, yes ! I had forgotten the Jew,” said Chauveho, 
and, turning towards the Jew, he called him peremptorily. 

“ Here, you . . . Aaron, Moses, Abraham, or what- 
ever your confounded name may be,” he said to the old 
man, who had quietly stood beside his lean nag, as far 
away from the soldiers as possible. 


THE PERE BLANCHARD’S HUT 271 

“Benjamin Rosenbaum, so it please your Honour,” he 
replied humbly. 

“It does not please me to hear your voice, but it 
does please me to give you certain orders, which you 
will find it wise to obey.” 

“So please your Honour . . 

“Hold your confounded tongue. You shall stay 
here, do you hear ? with your horse and cart until our 
return. You are on no account to utter the faintest 
sound, or to breathe even louder than you can help; 
nor are you, on any consideration whatever, to leave 
your post, until I give you orders to do so. Do you 
understand ? ” 

“But your Honour — ” protested the Jew pitiably. 

“ There is no question of * but ’ or of any argument,” 
said Chauvelin, in a tone that made the timid old man 
tremble from head to foot. “ If, when I return, I do not 
find you here, I most solemnly assure you that, wherever 
you may try and hide yourself, I can find you, and that 
punishment swift, sure and terrible, will sooner or later 
overtake you. Do you hear me ? ” 

“ But your Excellency . . 

“ I said, do you hear me?" 

The soldiers had all crept away ; the three men stood 
alone together in the dark and lonely road, with Mar- 
guerite there, behind the hedge, listening to Chauvelin’s 
orders, as she would to her own death sentence. 

“ I heard your Honour,” protested the Jew again, while 
he tried to draw nearer to Chauvelin, “ and I swear by 
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob that I would obey your 
Honour most absolutely, and that I would not move from 
this place until your Honour once more deigned to shed 
the light of your countenance upon your humble servant; 
but remember, your Honour, I am a poor old man ; my 


0 


2/2 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

nerves are not as strong as those of a young soldier. If 
midnight marauders should come prowling round this 
lonely road ! I might scream or run in my fright ! and is 
my life to be forfeit, is some terrible punishment to come 
on my poor old head for that which I cannot help ? ” 

The Jew seemed in real distress ; he was shaking from 
head to foot. Clearly he was not the man to be left by 
himself on this lonely road. The man spoke truly; 
he might unwittingly, in sheer terror, utter the shriek 
that might prove a warning to the wily Scarlet 
Pimpernel. 

Chauvelin reflected for a moment. 

“ Will your horse and cart be safe alone, here, do you 
think ? ” he asked roughly. 

“I fancy, Htoyen,” here interposed Desgas, “that 
they will be safer, without that dirty, cowardly Jew, as 
with him. There seems no doubt that, if he gets 
scared, he will either make a bolt of it, or shriek his 
head off.” 

“ But what am I to do with the brute ? ” 

“Will you send him back to Calais, citoyen ? * 

“No, for we shall want him to drive back the wounded 
presently,” said Chauvelin, with grim significance. 

There was a pause again — Desgas, waiting for the 
decision of his chief, and the old Jew whining beside his 
nag. 

M Well, you lazy, lumbering old coward,” said Chauve- 
lin at last, “you had better shuffle along behind us. 
Here, Citoyen Desgas, tie this handkerchief tightly 
round the fellow’s mouth.” 

Chauvelin handed a scarf to Desgas, who solemnly 
began winding it round the Jew’s mouth. Meekly 
Benjamin Rosenbaum allowed himself to be gagged; 
he, evidently, preferred this uncomfortable state to that 


THE PfcRE BLANCHARD’S HUT 273 

of being left alone, on the dark St Martin Road. Then 
the three men fell in line. 

“ Quick ! ” said Chauvelin, impatiently, “ we have 
already wasted much valuable time.” 

And the firm footsteps of Chauvelin and Desgas, the 
shuffling gait of the old Jew, soon died away along the 
footpath. 

Marguerite had not lost a single one of Chauvelin’s 
words of command. Her every nerve was strained to 
completely grasp the situation first, then to make a 
final appeal to those wits which had so often been called 
the sharpest in Europe, and which alone might be of 
service now. 

Certainly the situation was desperate enough ; a tiny 
band of unsuspecting men, quietly awaiting the arrival of 
their rescuer, who was equally unconscious of the trap laid 
for them all. It seemed so horrible, this net, as it were 
drawn in a circle, at dead of night, on a lonely beach, 
round a few defenceless men, defenceless because they 
were tricked and unsuspecting; of these one was the 
husband she idolised, another the brother she loved 
She vaguely wondered who the others were, who were 
also calmly waiting for the Scarlet Pimpernel, while 
death lurked behind every boulder of the cliffs. 

For the moment she could do nothing but follow the 
soldiers and Chauvelin. She feared to lose her way, 
or she would have rushed forward and found that wooden 
hut, and perhaps been in time to warn the fugitives and 
their brave deliverer yet. 

For a second, the thought flashed through her mind 
of uttering the piercing shrieks, which Chauvelin seemed 
to dread, as a possible warning to the Scarlet Pimpernel 
and his friends — in the wild hope that they would hear, 
and have yet time to escape before it was too late. But 


274 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

she did not know how far from the edge of the cliff she 
was ; she did not know if her shrieks would reach the 
ears of the doomed men. Her effort might be prema- 
ture, and she would never be allowed to make another. 
Her mouth would be securely gagged, like that of the 
Jew, and she, a helpless prisoner in the hands of Chauve- 
lin’s men. 

Like a ghost she flitted noiselessly behind that hedge : 
she had taken her shoes off, and her stockings were by 
now torn off her feet. She felt neither soreness nor 
weariness ; indomitable will to reach her husband in 
spite of adverse Fate, and of a cunning enemy, killed all 
sense of bodily pain within her, and rendered her 
instincts doubly acute. 

She heard nothing save the soft and measured foot- 
steps of Percy’s enemies on in front ; she saw nothing 
but — in her mind’s eye — that wooden hut, and he, hei 
husband, walking blindly to his doom. 

Suddenly, those same keen instincts within her made 
her pause in her mad haste, and cower still further within 
the shadow of the hedge. The moon, which had proved 
a friend to her by remaining hidden behind a bank of 
clouds, now emerged in all the glory of an early autumn 
night, and in a moment flooded the weird and lonely 
landscape with a rush of brilliant light. 

There, not two hundred metres ahead, was the edge 
of the cliff, and below, stretching far away to free and 
happy England, the sea rolled on smoothly and peace- 
ably. Marguerite’s gaze rested for an instant on the 
brilliant, silvery waters, and as she gazed her heart, which 
had been numb with pain for all these hours, seemed to 
soften and distend, and her eyes filled with hot tears : 
not three miles away, with white sails set, a graceful 
schooner lay in wait. 


T HE PERE BLANCHARD’S HUT 275 

Marguerite had guessed rather than recognized her. 
It was the Day Drcam> Percy’s favourite yacht, with 
old Briggs, that prince of skippers, aboard, and all her 
crew of British sailors : her white sails, glistening in the 
moonlight, seemed to convey a message to Marguerite 
of joy and hope, which yet she feared could never be. 
She waited there, out at sea, waited for her master, like 
a beautiful white bird all ready to take flight, and he 
would never reach her, never see her smooth deck again, 
never gaze any more on the white cliffs of England, the 
land of liberty and of hope. 

The sight of the schooner seemed to infuse into the 
poor, wearied woman the superhuman strength of 
despair. There was the edge of the cliff, and some way 
below was the hut, where presently, her husband would 
meet his death. But the moon was out : she could see 
her way now : she would see the hut from a distance, 
run to it, rouse them all, warn them at any rate to be 
prepared and to sell their lives dearly, rather than be 
caught like so many rats in a hole. 

She stumbled on behind the hedge in the low, thick 
grass of the ditch. She must have run on very fast, and 
had outdistanced Chauvelin and Desgas, for presently 
she reached the edge of the clifl, and heard their foot- 
steps distinctly behind her. But only a very few yards 
away, and now the moonlight was full upon her, her 
figure must have been distinctly silhouetted against the 
silvery background of the sea. 

Only for a moment, though ; the next she had 
cowered, like some animal doubled up within itself. 
She peeped down the great rugged cliffs — the descent 
would be easy enough, as they were not precipitous, 
and the great boulders afforded plenty of foothold. 
Suddenly, as she gazed, she saw at some little distance 


276 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


on her left, and about midway down the cliffs, a rough 
wooden construction, through the walls of which a tiny 
red light glimmered like a beacon. Her very heart 
seemed to stand still, the eagerness of joy was so great, 
that it felt like an awful pain. 

She could not gauge how distant the hut was, but 
without hesitation she began the steep descent, creeping 
from boulder to boulder, caring nothing for the enemy be- 
hind, or for the soldiers, who evidently had all taken cover 
sirce the tall Englishman had not yet appeared. 

On she pressed, forgetting the deadly foe on her track, 
running, stumbling, foot-sore, half-dazed, but still on 
. . . When, suddenly, a crevice, or stone, or slippery bit 
of rock, threw her violently to the ground. She struggled 
again to her feet, and started running forward once more 
to give them that timely warning, to beg them to flee 
before he came, and to tell him to keep away — away 
from this death-trap — away from this awful doom. But 
now she realised that other steps, quicker than her own, 
were already close at her heels. The next instant a 
hand dragged at her skirt, and she was down on her 
knees again, whilst something was wound round her 
mouth to prevent her uttering a scream. 

Bewildered, half frantic with the bitterness of disap- 
pointment, she looked round her helplessly, and, bend- 
ing down quite close to her, she saw through the mist, 
which seemed to gather round her, a pair of keen, 
malicious eyes, which appeared to her excited brain to 
have a weird, supernatural green light in them. 

She lay in the shadow of a great boulder ; Chauvelin 
could not see her features, but he passed his thin, white 
fingers over her face. 

“ A woman ! ” he whispered, “ by all the Saints in the 
calendar.” 


THE PfcRE BLANCHARD’S HUT 277 

“ We cannot let her loose, that’s certain,” he muttered 
to himself. “ I wonder now . . 

Suddenly he paused, and after a few seconds of 
deadly silence, he gave forth a long, low, curious chuckle, 
while once again Marguerite felt, with a horrible shudder 
his thin fingers wandering over her face. 

“ Dear me ! dear me ! ” he whispered, with affected 
gallantry, “this is indeed a charming surprise,” and 
Marguerite felt her resistless hand raised to Chauvelin’s 
thin, mocking lips. 

The situation was indeed grotesque, had it not been 
at the same time so fearfully tragic: the poor, weary 
woman, broken in spirit, and half frantic with the bitter* 
ness of her disappointment, receiving on her knees the 
banal gallantries of her deadly enemy. 

Her senses were leaving her; half choked with the 
tight grip round her mouth, she had no strength to 
move or to utter the faintest sound. The excitement 
which all along had kept up her delicate body, seemed 
at once to have subsided, and the feeling of blank 
despair to have completely paralyzed her brain and 
nerves. 

Chauvelin must have given some directions, which she 
was too dazed to hear, for she felt herself lifted from off 
her feet : the bandage round her mouth was made more 
secure, and a pair of strong arms carried her towards 
that tiny, red light, on ahead, which she had looked 
upon as a beacon and the last faint glimmer of hope. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


TRAPPED 

She did not know how long she was thus carried along 
she had lost all notion of time and space, and for a few 
seconds tired nature, mercifully, deprived her of con- 
sciousness. 

When she once more realised her state, she felt that 
she was placed with some degree of comfort upon a 
man’s coat, with her back resting against a fragment of 
rock. The moon was hidden again behind some 
clouds, and the darkness seemed in comparison more 
intense. The sea was roaring some two hundred feet 
below her, and on looking all round she could no longer 
see any vestige of the tiny glimmer of red light. 

That the end of the journey had been reached, she 
gathered from the fact that she heard rapid questions 
and answers spoken in a whisper quite close to her. 

“ There are four men in there, citoyen ; t hey are 
sitting by the fire, and seem to be waiting quietly.** 

“ The hour?” 

“ Nearly two o’clock.” 

" The tide?” 

“ Coming in quickly.** 

“The schooner? ” 

“Obviously an English one, lying some three kilo- 
metres out. But we cannot see her boat.’* 

“ Have the men taken cover ? ** 

“ Yes, citoyen.” 


TRAPPED 


279 


14 They will not blunder ? ” 

M They will not stir until the tall Englishman comes, 
then they will surround and overpower the five men.” 

“ Right. And the lady ? ” 

“ Still dazed, I fancy. She's close beside you, 
citoyen.” 

“ And the Jew?” 

14 He’s gagged, and his legs strapped together. He 
cannot move or scream.” 

“ Good. Then have your gun ready, in case you want 
it. Get close to the hut and leave me to look after the 
lady.” 

Desgas evidently obeyed, for Marguerite heard him 
creeping away along the stony cliff, then she felt that a 
pair of warm, thin, talon-like hands took hold of both 
her own, and held them in a grip of steel. 

“ Before that handkerchief is removed from your pretty 
mouth, fkir lady,” whispered Chauvelin close to her ear, 
“I think it right to give you one small word of warning. 
What has procured me the honour of being followed 
across the Channel by so charming a companion, I 
cannot, of course, conceive, but, if I mistake not, the 
purpose of this flattering attention is not one that would 
commend itself to my vanity, and I think that I am right 
in surmising, moreover, that the first sound which your 
pretty lips would utter, as soon as the cruel gag is 
removed, would be one that would perhaps prove & 
warning to the cunning fox, which I have been at such 
pains to track to his lair.” 

He paused a moment, while the steel-like grasp 
seemed to tighten round her wrist; then he resumed 
in the same hurried whisper : — 

“ Inside that hut, if again I am not mistaken, your 
brother, Armand St Just, waits with that traitor de Tour- 


2 So THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


nay, and two other men unknown to you, for the arrival 
of the mysterious rescuer, whose identity has for so long 
puzzled our Committee of Public Safety — the audacious 
Scarlet Pimpernel. No doubt if you scream, if there is 
a scuffle here, if shots are fired, it is more than likely 
that the same long legs that brought this scarlet enigma 
here, will as quickly take him to some place of safety. 
The purpose then, for which I have travelled all these 
miles will remain unaccomplished. On the other hand 
it only rests with yourself that your brother — Armand — 
shall be free to go off with you to-night if you like, to 
England, or any other place of safety.” 

Marguerite could not utter a sound, as the handker- 
chief was wound very tightly round her mouth, but 
Chauvelin was peering through the darkness very 
'Closely into her face; no doubt too her hand gave a 
responsive appeal to his last suggestion, for presently 
he continued : — 

“What I want you to do to ensure Armand’s safety 
is a very simple thing, dear lady.” 

“ What is it ? ” Marguerite’s hand seemed to convey 
to his, in response. 

“To remain — on this spot, without uttering a sound, 
until I give you leave to speak. Ah ! but I think you 
will obey,” he added, with that funny dry chuckle of his 
as Marguerite’s whole figure seemed to stiffen, in defiance 
of this order, “for let me tell you that if you scream, 
nay ! if you utter one sound, or attempt to move from 
here, my men — there are thirty of them about — will 
seize St Just, de Tournay, and their two friends, and 
shoot them here — by my orders — before your eyes.” 

Marguerite had listened to her implacable enemy’s 
speech with ever-increasing terror. Numbed with 
physical pain, she yet had sufficient mental vitality 


TRAPPED 


281 


in her, to realize the full horror of this terrible “either 
— or ” he was once more putting before her ; an “ either 
— or ” ten thousand times more appalling and horrible, 
than the one he had suggested to her that fatal night at 
the ball. 

This time it meant that she should keep still, and 
allow the husband she worshipped to walk uncon- 
sciously to his death, or that she should, by trying 
to give him a word of warning, which perhaps might 
even be unavailing, actually give the signal for her own 
brother’s death, and that of three other unsuspecting men. 

She could not see Chauvelin, but she could almost 
feel those keen, pale eyes of his fixed maliciously 
upon her helpless form, and his hurried, whispered 
words reached her ear, as the death-knell of her last 
faint, lingering hope. 

“Nay, fair lady,” he added urbanely, “you can have 
no interest in anyone save in St Just, and all you need 
do for his safety is to remain where you are, and to 
keep silent. My men have strict orders to spare him 
in every way. As for that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel, 
what is he to you ? Believe me, no warning from you, could 
possibly save him. And now dear lady, let me remove 
this unpleasant coercion, which has been placed before 
your pretty mouth. You see I wish you to be perfectly 
free, in the choice which you are about to make.” 

Her thoughts in a whirl, her temples aching, her 
nerves paralyzed, her body numb with pain, Marguerite 
sat there, in the darkness which surrounded her as with 
a pall. From where she sat she could not see the sea, 
but she heard the incessant mournful murmur of the 
incoming tide, which spoke of her dead hopes, her lost 
love, the husband she had with her own hand betrayed, 
and sent to his death. 


28a THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


Chauvelin removed the handkerchief from her mouth, 
She certainly did not scream : at that moment, she had 
no strength to do anything but barely to hold herself 
upright, and to force herself to think. 

Oh ! think ! think ! think ! of what she should do. 
The minutes flew on ; in this awful stillness she could not 
tell how fast or how slowly ; she heard nothing, she saw 
nothing: she did not feel the sweet-smelling autumn air, 
scented with the briny odour of the sea, she no longer 
heard the murmur of the waves, the occasional rattling 
of a pebble, as it rolled down some steep incline. More 
and more unreal did the whole situation seem. It was 
impossible that she. Marguerite Blakeney, the queen of 
London society, should actually be sitting here on this 
bit of lonely coast, in the middle of the night, side by 
side with a most bitter enemy : and oh ! it was not 
possible that somewhere, not many hundred feet away 
perhaps, from where she stood, the being she had once 
despised, but who now, in every moment of this weird, 
dreamlike life, became more and more dear — it was not 
possible that he was unconsciously, even now walking to 
his doom, whilst she did nothing to save him. 

Why did she not with unearthly screams, that would 
re-echo from one end of the lonely beach to the other, 
send out a warning to him to desist, to retrace his steps, 
for death lurked here whilst he advanced? Once or 
twice the screams rose to her throat — as if by instinct : 
then, before her eyes there stood the awful alternative: 
her brother and those three men shot before her eyes, 
practically by her orders : she their murderer. 

Oh ! that fiend in human shape, next to her, knew 
human — female — nature well. He had played upon 
her feelings as a skilful musician plays upon an instru- 
ment. He had gauged her very thoughts to a nicety. 


TRAPPED 


283 

She could not give that signal — for she was weak, 
ind she was a woman. How could she deliberately 
order Armand to be shot before her eyes, to have his 
dear blood upon her head, he dying perhaps with a 
curse on her, upon his lips. And little Suzanne’s 
father, too ! he, an old man 1 and the others ! — oh 1 
it was all too, too horrible. 

Wait ! wait ! wait ! how long ? The early morning 
hours sped on, and yet it was not dawn : the sea 
continued its incessant mournful murmur, the autumnal 
breeze sighed gently in the night : the lonely beach was 
silent, even as the grave. 

Suddenly from somewhere, not very far away, a 
cheerful, strong voice was heard singing “God save 
tSae King !” 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE SCHOONER 

Marguerite’s aching heart stood still. She felt, mo * 
than she heard, the men on the watch preparing T* x 
the fight. Her senses told her that each, with swo^d 
in hand, was crouching, ready for the spring. 

The voice came nearer and nearer; in the vast 
immensity of these lonely cliffs, with the loud murmur 
of the sea below, it was impossible to say how near, or 
how far, nor yet from which direction came that 
cheerful singer, who sang to God to save his King, 
whilst he himself was in such deadly danger. Faint at 
first, the voice grew louder and louder; from time to 
time a small pebble detached itself apparently from 
beneath the firm tread of the singer, and went rolling 
down the rocky cliffs to the beach below. 

Marguerite as she heard, felt that her very life was 
slipping away, as if when that voice drew nearer, when 
that singer became entrapped . . . 

She distinctly heard the click of Desgas’ gun close to 
her. . . . 

No ! no ! no ! no ! Oh, God in heaven ! this cannot be ! 
let Armand’s blood then be upon her own head ! let her 
be branded as his murderer! let even he, whom she 
loved, despise and loathe her for this, but God 1 oh 
God ! save him at any cost ! 

With a wild shriek, she sprang to her feet, and darted 
round the rock, against which she had been cowering : 


THE SCHOONER 


285 


she saw the little red gleam through the chinks of the 
hut ; she ran up to it and fell against its wooden walls, 
which she began to hammer with clenched fists in an 
almost maniacal frenzy, while she shouted, — 

“ Armand ! Armand ! for God’s sake fire ! your leader 
is near ! he is coming ! he is betrayed ! Armand ! 
Armand ! fire in Heaven’s name ! ” 

She was seized and thrown to the ground. She lay 
there moaning, bruised, not caring, but still half-sobbing, 
half-shrieking, — 

“ Percy, my husband, for God’s sake fly ! Armand ! 
Armand ! why don’t you fire ? ” 

“One of you stop that woman screaming,” hissed 
Chauvelin, who hardly could refrain from striking her. 

Something was thrown over her face ; she could not 
breathe, and perforce she was silent. 

The bold singer, too, had become silent, warned, no 
doubt, of his impending danger by Marguerite’s frantic 
shrieks The men had sprung to their feet, there was 
no need for further silence on their part ; the very cliffs 
echoed the poor, heart-broken woman’s screams. 

Chauvelin, with a muttered oath, which boded no good 
to her, who had dared to upset his most cherished plans, 
had hastily shouted the word of command, — 

“ Into it, my men, and let no one escape from that 
hut alive ! ” 

The moon had once more emerged from between the 
clouds : the darkness on the cliffs had gone, giving place 
once more to brilliant, silvery light. Some of the soldiers 
had rushed to the rough, wooden door of the hut, whilst 
one of them kept guard over Marguerite. 

The door was partially open ; one of the soldiers 
pushed it further, but within all wao darkness, the 
charcoal fire only lighting with a dim, red light the 


286 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


furthest corner of the hut The soldiers paused auto- 
matically at the door, like machines waiting for further 
orders. 

Chauvelin, who was prepared for a violent onslaught ' 
from within, and for a vigorous resistance from the four 
fugitives, under cover of the darkness, was for the moment 
paralyzed with astonishment when he saw the soldiers 
standing there at attention, like sentries on guard, whilst 
not a sound proceeded from the hut. 

Filled with strange, anxious foreboding, he, too, went 
to the door of the hut, and peering into the gloom, he 
asked quickly, — 

“What is the meaning of this?” 

“I think, citoyen, that there is no one there now,' 
replied one of the soldiers imperturbably. 

“You have not let those four men go ?” thundered 
Chauvelin, menacingly. “ I ordered you to let no man 
escape alive ! — Quick, after them all of you ! Quick, in 
every direction ! " 

The men, obedient as machines, rushed down the 
rocky incline towards the beach, some going off to right 
and left, as fast as their feet could carry them. 

“You and your men will pay with your lives for this 
blunder, citoyen sergeant,” said Chauvelin viciously to 
the sergeant who had been in charge of the men ; “ and 
you, too, citoyen,” he added turning with a snarl to 
Desgas, “ for disobeying my orders.” 

“You ordered us to wait, citoyen, until the tali 
Englishman arrived and joined the four men in the hut. 
No one came,” said the sergeant sullenly. 

“ But I ordered you just now, when the woman 
screamed, to rush in and let no one escape.” 

“ But, citoyen, the four men who were there before, 
had been gone some time. I think . . 


THE SCHOONER 287 

**You think? — You? . . said Chauvelin, almost 
choking with fury, “ and you let them go . . 

“You ordered us to wait, citoyen," protested the 
sergeant, “and to implicitly obey your commands on 
pain of death. We waited." 

41 1 heard the men creep out of the hut, not many 
minutes after we took cover, and long before the woman 
screamed," he added, as Chauvelin seemed still quite 
speechless with rage. 

“ Hark ! ” said Desgas suddenly. 

In the. distance the sound of repeated firing was heard. 
Chauvelin tried to peer along the beach below, but a3 
luck would have it, the fitful moon once more hid her 
light behind a bank of clouds, and he rould see nothing. 

“One of you go into the hut and strike a light, * he 
stammered at last. 

Stolidly the sergeant obeyed: he went up to the 
charcoal fire and lit the small lantern he carried in his 
belt ; it was evident that the hut was quite empty. 

“ Which way did they go ? ” asked Chauvelin. 

“ I could not tell, citoyen,” said the sergeant ; “ they 
went straight down the cliff first, then disappeared behind 
some boulders." 

“ Hush ! what was that ? ” 

All three men listened attentively. In the far, very 
far distance, could be heard faintly echoing and already 
dying away, the quick, sharp splash of half a dozen oars. 
Chauvelin took out his handkerchief and wiped the 
perspiration from his forehead. 

“The schooner’s boat ! " was all he gasped. 

Evidently Armand St Just and his three companions 
had managed to creep along the side of the cliffs, whilst 
the men, like true soldiers of the well-drilled Republican 
army, had with blind obedience, and in fear of their 


288 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 


lives, implicitly obeyed Chauvelin’s orders — to wait (ot 
the tall Englishman, who was the important capture. 

They had no doubt reached one of the creeks which 
Jut far out to sea on this coast at intervals ; behind this, 
the boat of the Day Dream must have been on the 
look-out for them, and they were by now safely on board 
the British schooner. 

As if to confirm this last supposition, the dull boom 
of a gun was heard from out at sea. 

“ The schooner, citoyen,” said Desgas, quietly ; M she’s 

off.” 

It needed all Chauvelin’s nerve and presence of mind 
not to give way to a useless and undignified access of 
rage. There was no doubt now, that once again, that 
accursed British head had completely outwitted him. 
How he had contrived to reach the hut, without being 
seen by one of the thirty soldiers who guarded the spot, 
was more than Chauvelin could conceive. That he had 
done so before the thirty men had arrived on the cliff 
was, of course, fairly clear, but how he had come over 
in Reuben Goldstein’s cart, all the way from Calais, 
without being sighted by the various patrols on duty 
was impossible of explanation. It really seemed as if 
some potent Fate watched over that daring Scarlet 
Pimpernel, and his astute enemy almost felt a super- 
stitious shudder pass through him, as he looked round 
at the towering cliffs, and the loneliness of this outlying 
coast. 

But surely this was reality ! and the year of grace 
1792: there were no fairies and hobgoblins about. 
Chauvelin and his thirty men had all heard with their 
own ears that accursed voice singing “God save the 
King,” fully twenty minutes after they had all taken cover 
around the hut; by that time the four fugitives must 


THE SCHOONER 289 

have reached the creek, and got into the boat, and the 
nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut. 

Where had that daring singer got to. Unless Satan 
himself had lent him wings, he could not have covered 
that mile on a rocky cliff in the space of two minutes ; 
and only two minutes had elapsed between his song and 
the sound of the boat’s oars away at sea. He must have 
remained behind, and was even now hiding somewhere 
about the cliffs ; the patrols were still about, he would 
still be sighted, no doubt. Chauvelin felt hopeful once 
again. 

One or two of the men, who had run after the fugitives, 
were now slowly working their way up the cliff : one of 
them reached Chauvelin’s side, at the very moment that 
this hope arose in the astute diplomatist’s heart. 

“ We were too late, citoyen,” the soldier said, “ we 
reached the beach just before the moon was hidden by 
that bank of clouds. The boat had undoubtedly been 
on the look-out behind that first creek, a mile off, but she 
had shoved off some time ago, when we got to the beach, 
and was already some way out to sea. We fired after 
her, but of course, it was no good. She was making 
straight and quickly for the schooner. We saw her very 
clearly in the moonlight.” 

“Yes,” said Chauvelin, with eager impatience, “she 
had shoved off some time ago, you said, and the nearest 
creek is a mile further on.” 

“ Yes, citoyen ! I ran all the way, straight to the beach, 
though I guessed the boat would have waited somewhere 
near the creek, as the tide would reach there earliest. 
The boat must have shoved off some minutes before the 
woman began to scream.” 

Some minutes before the woman began to scream \ 
Then Chauvelin’s hopes had not deceived him. The 

1 


tt 


290 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

Scarlet Pimpernel may have contrived to send the 
fugitives on ahead by the boat, but he himself had not 
had time to reach it ; he was still on shore, and all the 
roads were well patrolled. At anyrate, all was not yet 
lost, and would not be, whilst that impudent Britisher 
was still on French soil. 

“ Bring the light in here ! ” he commanded eagerly, as 
he once more entered the hut 

The sergeant brought his lantern, and together the 
two men explored the little place : with a rapid glance 
Chauvelin noted its contents : the cauldron placed close 
under an aperture in the wall, and containing the last 
few dying embers of burned charcoal, a couple of stools, 
overturned as if in the haste of sudden departure, then 
the fisherman’s tools and his nets lying in one corner, 
and beside them, something small and white. 

“Pick that up,” said Chauvelin to the sergeant, 
pointing to this white scrap, “and bring it to me.” 

It was a crumpled piece of paper, evidently forgotten 
there by the fugitives, in their hurry to get away. The 
sergeant, much awed by the citoyen’s obvious rage and 
impatience, picked the paper up and handed it respect- 
fully to Chauvelin. 

“ Read it, sergeant,” said the latter curtly. 

“It is almost illegible, citoyen ... a fearful 
scrawl. ...” 

“I ordered you to read it,” repeated Chauvelin, 

viciously. 

The sergeant, by the light of his lantern began 
deciphering the few hastily scrawled words. 

“ I cannot quite reach you, without risking your lives 
and endangering the success of your rescue. When you 
receive this, wait two minutes, then creep out of the hut 


THE SCHOONER 


$91 

oae by one, turn to your left sharply, and creep 
cautiously down the cliff ; keep to the left all the time, 
till you reach the first rock, which you see jutting far out 
to sea — behind it in the creek the boat is on the 
look-out for you — give a long, sharp whistle — she will 
come up — get into her — my men will row you to the 
schooner, and thence to England and safety — once on 
board the Day Dream send the boat back for me, tell 
my men that I shall be at the creek, which is in a direct 
line opposite the ‘ Chat Gris * near Calais. They know it. 
I shall be there as soon as possible— -they must wait for 
me at a safe distance out at sea, till they hear the usual 
signal. Do not delay — and obey these instructions 
implicitly.” 

“Then there is the signature, citoyen,” added the 
sergeant, as he handed the paper back to Chauvelin. 

But the latter had not waited an Instant. One phrase 
of the momentous scrawl had caught his ear. “ I shall be 
at the creek which is in a direct line opposite the 4 Chat 
Gris ' near Calais ” : that phrase might yet mean victory 
for him. 

14 Which of you knows this coast well?" he shouted to 
his men who now one by one had all returned from 
their fruitless run, and were all assembled once more 
round the hut. 

44 1 do, citoyen," said one of them, 14 1 was born in 
Calais, and know every stone of these cliffs.” 

44 There is a creek in a direct line from the 4 Chat 
Gris’?" 

44 There is, citoyen. I know it well.” 

44 The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He 
does not know every stone of these cliffs, he may go there 
by the longest way round, and in any case he will proceed 


*92 the scarlet pimpernel 

cautiously for fear of the patrols. At anyrate, there is 
a chance to get him yet. A thousand francs to each 
man who gets to that creek before that long-legged 
Englishman.” 

“ I know a short cut across the cliffs,” said the soldier, 
and with an enthusiastic shout, he rushed forward, 
followed closely by his comrades. 

Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died 
away in the distance. Chauvelin listened to them for a 
moment ; the promise of the reward was lending spurs 
to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of hate and 
anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his 
face. 

Close to him Desgas still stood mute and impassive, 
waiting for further orders, whilst two soldiers were 
kneeling beside the prostrate form of Marguerite. 
Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious look. His well- 
laid plan had failed, its sequel was problematical ; there 
was still a great chance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel 
might yet escape, and Chauvelin, with that unreasoning 
fury, which sometimes assails a strong nature, was longing 
to vent his rage on somebody. 

The soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the 
ground, though she, poor soul, was not making the 
faintest struggle. Overwrought nature had at last per- 
emptorily asserted herself, and she lay there in a dead 
swoon : her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that told 
of long, sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp 
round her forehead, her lips parted in a sharp curve 
that spoke of physical pain. 

The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and 
fashionable Lady Blakeney, who had dazzled London 
society with her beauty, her wit and her extravagances, 
presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out, suffering 


THE SCHOONER 


293 

womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the 
hard, vengeful heart of her baffled enemy. 

“ It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is 
half dead,” he said spitefully to the soldiers, “ when 
you have allowed five men who were very much alive 
to escape.” 

Obediently the soldiers rose to their feet. 

‘‘You’d better try and find that footpath again for me, 
and that broken-down cart we left on the road.” 

Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him. 

“ Ah ! by-the-bye ! where is the Jew ? ” 

“Close by here, citoyen,” said Desgas ; “I gagged 
him and tied his legs together as you commanded.” 

From the immediate vicinity, a plaintive moan reached 
Chauvelin’s ears. He followed his secretary, who led 
the way to the other side of the hut, where, fallen into an 
absolute heap of dejection, with his legs tightly pinioned 
together and his mouth gagged, lay the unfortunate 
descendant of Israel. 

His face in the silvery light of the moon, looked 
positively ghastly with terror : his eyes were wide open 
and almost glassy, and his whole body was trembling, as 
if with ague, while a piteous wail escaped his bloodless 
lips. The rope which had originally been wound round 
his shoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it 
lay in a tangle about his body, but he seemed quite 
unconscious of this, for he had not made the slightest 
attempt to move from the place where Desgas had 
originally put him : like a terrified chicken which looks 
upon a line of white chalk, drawn on a table, as on a 
itring which paralyzes its movements. 

“ Bring the cowardly brute here,” commanded 
Chauvelin. 

He certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he 


294 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

had no reasonable grounds for venting his ill-humour on 
the soldiers who had but too punctually obeyed his 
orders, he felt that the son of the despised race would 
prove an excellent butt. With true French contempt of 
the Jew, which has survived the lapse of centuries even 
to this day, he would not go too near him, but said with 
biting sarcasm, as the wretched old man was brought in 
full light of the moon by the two soldiers, — 

“ I suppose now, that being a Jew, you have a good 
memory for bargains ? * 

“ Answer ! ” he again commanded, as the Jew with 
trembling lips seemed too frightened to speak. 

“Yes, your Honour,” stammered the poor wretch. 

11 You remember, then, the one you and I made to- 
gether in Calais, when you undertook to overtake 
Reuben Goldstein, his nag and my friend the tall 
stranger ? Eh ? ” 

“ B . . . b . . . but . . . your Honour . . ,* 

“ There is no ‘ but.’ I said, do you remember ? ” 

“ Y . . . y . . . y . . . yes . . . your Honour ! ” 

“ What was the bargain ? ” 

There was dead silence. The unfortunate man 
looked round at the great cliffs, the moon above, the 
stolid faces of the soldiers, and even at the poor, 
prostrate, inanimate woman close by, but said nothing. 

“ Will you speak ? ” thundered Chauvelin, menacingly. 

He did try, poor wretch, but, obviously, he could not 
There was no doubt, however, that he knew what to 
expect from the stern man before him. 

“ Your Honour . . .” he ventured imploringly. 

“Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your 
tongue,” said Chauvelin, sarcastically, “I must needs 
refresh your memory. It was agreed between us, that if 
we overtook my friend the tall stranger, before he 


THE SCHOONER 


295 

reached this place, you were to have ten pieces of 
gold.” 

A low moan escaped from the Jew’s trembling lips. 

11 But,” added Chauvelin, with slow emphasis, “ if you 
deceived me in your promise, you were to have a sound 
beating, one that would teach you not to tell lies.” 

“ I did not, your Honour ; I swear it by Abraham . . 

“And by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfor- 
tunately, they are still in Hades, I believe, according to 
your creed, and cannot help you much in your present 
trouble. Now, you did not fulfil your share of the bar- 
gain, but I am ready to fulfil mine. Here,” he added, 
turning to the soldiers, “ the buckle-end of your two 
belts to this confounded Jew.” 

As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy 
leather belts, "the Jew set up a howl that surely would 
have been enough to bring all the patriarchs out of 
Hades and elsewhere, to defend their descendant from 
the brutality of this French official. 

“ I think I can rely on you, citoyen soldiers,” laughed 
Chauvelin, maliciously, “to give this old liar the best 
and soundest beating he has ever experienced. But 
don’t kill him,” he added drily. 

“ We will obey, citoyen,” replied the soldiers as 
imperturbably as ever. 

He did not wait to see his orders carried out : he 
knew that he could trust these soldiers — who were still 
smarting under his rebuke — not to mince matters, when 
given a free hand to belabour a third party. 

“ When that lumbering coward has had his punish- 
ment,” he said to Desgas, “ the men can guide us as far 
as the cart, and one of them can drive us in it back to 
Calais. The Jew and the woman can look after each 
other,” he added roughly, “ until we can send somebody 


296 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

for them in the morning. They can’t run away very 
far, in their present condition, and we cannot be 
troubled with them just now.” 

Chauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he 
knew, were spurred on by the hope of the reward. That 
enigmatic and audacious Scarlet Pimpernel, alone and 
with thirty men at his heels, could not reasonably be 
expected to escape a second time. 

But he felt less sure now : the Englishman’s audacity 
had baffled him once, whilst the wooden-headen stupidity 
of the soldiers, and the interference of a woman had 
turned his hand, which held all the trumps, into a losing 
one. If Marguerite had not taken up his time, if the 
soldiers had had a grain of intelligence, if ... it was a 
long “ if,” and Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still, 
and enrolled thirty odd people in one long, overwhelm- 
ing anathema. Nature, poetic, silent, balmy, the bright 
moon, the calm, silvery sea spoke of beauty and of rest, 
and Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman, 
and, above all, he cursed all long-legged, meddlesome 
British enigmas with one gigantic curse. 

The howls of the Jew behind him, undergoing his 
punishment sent a balm through his heart, overburdened 
as it was with revengeful malice. He smiled. It eased 
his mind to think that some human being at least was, 
like himself, not altogether at peace with mankind. 

He turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of 
coast, where stood the wooden hut, now bathed in 
moonlight, the scene of the greatest discomfiture ever 
experienced by a leading member of the Committee of 
Public Safety. 

Against a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the un- 
conscious figure of Marguerite Blakeney, while some 
few paces further on, the unfortunate Jew was receiving 


THE SCHOONER 


297 


on his broad back the blows of two stout leather belts, 
wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of the 
Republic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit 
to make the dead rise from their graves. They must 
have wakened all the gulls from sleep, and made them 
look down with great interest at the doings of the lords 
of the creation. 

“That will do,” commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew’s 
moans became more feeble, and the poor wretch seemed 
to have fainted away, “we don't want to kill him.” 

Obediently the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of 
them viciously kicking the Jew to one side. 

“Leave him there,” said Chauvelin, “and lead the 
way now quickly to the cart. I’ll follow.” 

He walked up to where Marguerite lay, and looked 
down into her face. She had evidently recovered con- 
sciousness, and was making feeble efforts to raise herself. 
Her large, blue eyes were looking at the moonlit scene 
round her with a scared and terrified look ; they rested 
with a mixture of horror and pity on the Jew, whose 
luckless fate and wild howls had been the first signs that 
struck her, with her returning senses ; then she caught 
sight of Chauvelin, in his neat, dark clothes, which 
seemed hardly crumpled after the stirring events of the 
last few hours. He was smiling sarcastically, and his 
pale eyes peered down at her with a look of intense 
malice. 

With mock gallantry, he stooped and raised her icy- 
cold hand to his lips, which sent a thrill of indescribable 
loathing through Marguerite’s weary frame. 

“ I much regret, fair lady,” he said in his most suave 
tones, “ that circumstances, over which I have no 
control, compel me to leave you here for the moment. 
But I go away, secure in the knowledge that I do not 


293 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

leave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, 
though a trifle the worse for wear at the present moment, 
will prove a gallant defender of your fair person, I have 
no doubt. At dawn I will send an escort for you ; until 
then, I feel sure that you will find him devoted, though 
perhaps a trifle slow.” 

Marguerite only had the strength to turn her head 
away. Her heart was broken with cruel anguish. One 
awful thought had returned to her mind, together with 
gathering consciousness : “ What had become of Percy ? 
— What of Armand ? ” 

She knew nothing of what had happened after she 
heard the cheerful song, “ God save the King,” which 
she believed to be the signal of death. 

“I, myself,” concluded Chauvelin, “must now very 
reluctantly leave you. Au revoir t fair lady. We meet, 
I hope, soon in London. Shall I see you at the Prince 
of Wales’ garden party? — No? — Ah, well, au rcvoir ! — 
Remember me, I pray, to Sir Percy Blakeney.” 

And, with a last ironical smile and bow, he once more 
kissed her hand, and disappeared down the footpath in 
the wake of the soldiers, and followed by the imperturb- 
able Desgas. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE ESCAPE 

Marguerite listened — half-dazed as she was — to the 
fast-retreating, firm footsteps of the four men. 

All nature was so still that she, lying with her ear 
close to the ground, could distinctly trace the sound of 
their tread, as they ultimately turned into the road, and 
presently the faint echo of the old cart-wheels, the 
halting gait of the lean nag, told her that her enemy was 
a quarter of a league away. How long she lay there she 
knew not. She had lost count of time; dreamily she 
looked up at the moonlit sky, and listened tr» the 
monotonous roll of the waves. 

The invigorating scent of the sea was nectar to her 
wearied body, the immensity of the lonely cliffs was 
silent and dreamlike. Her brain only remained 
conscious of its ceaseless, its intolerable torture of 
uncertainty. 

She did not know 1 — 

She did not know whether Percy was even now, at 
this moment, in the hands of the soldiers of the Republic, 
enduring — as she had done herself — the gibes and 
jeers of his malicious enemy. She did not know, on 
the other hand, whether Armand’s lifeless body did not 
lie there, in the hut, whilst Percy had escaped, only to 
hear that his wife’s hands had guided the human 
bloodhounds to the murder of Armand and hia 
friends 


300 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

The physical pain of utter weariness was so great, that 
she hoped confidently her tired body could rest here 
for ever, after all the turmoil, the passion, and the 
intrigues of the last few days — here, beneath that clear 
sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy 
autumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All 
was so solitary, so silent, like unto dreamland. Even 
the last faint echo of the distant cart had long ago died 
away, afar. 

Suddenly ... a sound . . . the strangest, undoubtedly, 
that these lonely cliffs of France had ever heard, broke 
the silent solemnity of the shore. 

So strange a sound was it, that the gentle breeze ceased 
to murmur, the tiny pebbles to roll down the steep in- 
cline ! So strange, that Marguerite, wearied, overwrought 
as she was, thought that the beneficial unconsciousness 
of the approach of death was playing her half-sleeping 
sense:-, a weird and elusive trick. 

It was the sound of a good, solid, absolutely British 
“ Damn ! ” 

The sea gulls in their nests awoke and looked round 
in astonishment ; a distant and solitary owl set up a 
midnight hoot, the tall cliffs frowned down majestically 
at the strange, unheard-of sacrilege. 

Marguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising 
herself on her hands, she strained every sense to see 
or hear, to know the meaning of this very earthly 
sound. 

All was still again for the space of a few seconds ; the 
same silence once more fell upon the great and lonely 
vastness. 

Then Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance, 
who felt she must be dreaming with that cool, magnetic 
moonlight overhead, heard again ; and this time hei 


THE ESCAPE 


30i 

heart stood still, her eyes large and dilated, looked 
round her, not daring to trust to her other sense. 

“Odd’s life! but I wish those demmed fellows had 
not hit quite so hard ! ” 

This time it was quite unmistakable, only one particular 
pair of essentially British lips could have uttered those 
words, in sleepy, drawly, affected tones. 

*• Damn ! ” repeated those same British lips, emphatic- 
ally. “ Zounds ! but I’m as weak as a rat ! ” 

In a moment Marguerite was on her feet. 

Was she dreaming? Were those great, stony cliffs 
the gates of paradise ? Was the fragrant breath of the 
breeze suddenly caused by the flutter of angels’ wings, 
bringing tidings of unearthly joys to her, after all her 
sufferings, or — faint and ill — was she the prey of delirium ? 

She listened again, and once again she heard the same 
very earthly sounds of good, honest British language, 
not the least akin to whisperings from paradise or flutter 
of angels’ wings. 

She looked round her eagerly at the tall cliffs, the 
lonely hut, the great stretch of rocky beach. Somewhere 
there, above or below her, behind a boulder or inside a 
crevice, but still hidden from her longing, feverish eyes, 
must be the owner of that voice, which once used to 
irritate her, but which now would make her the happiest 
woman in Europe, if only she could locate it. 

“Percy! Percy !*’ she shrieked hysterically, tortured 
between doubt and hope, “I am here ! Come to me ! 
Where are you ? Percy ! Percy ! . . . ” 

“ It’s all very well calling me, m’dear ! ” said the same 
sleepy, drawly voice, “ but odd’s my life, I cannot come 
to you : those demmed frog-eaters have trussed me like a 
goose on a spit, and I am as weak as a mouse ... I 
cannot get away.” 


302 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

And still Marguerite did not understand. She did 
not realise for at least another ten seconds whence came 
that voice, so drawly, so dear, but alas ! with a strange 
accent of weakness and of suffering. There was no one 
within sight . . . except by that rock . . . Great God ! 
. . . the Jew I . . . Was she mad or dreaming? . . . 

His back was against the pale moonlight, he was half- 
crouching, trying vainly to raise himself with his arms 
tightly pinioned. Marguerite ran up to him, took his 
head in both her hands . . . and looked straight into a 
pair of blue eyes, good-natured, even a trifle amused — 
shining out of the weird and distorted mask of the Jew. 

“Percy! . . . Percy! . . . my husband!” she gasped, 
faint with the fulness of her joy. “ Thank God ! Thank 
God!” 

“La! m’dear,” he rejoined good-humouredly, “we 
will both do that anon, an you think you can loosen 
these demmed ropes, and release me from my inelegant 
attitude.” 

She had no knife, her fingers were numb and weak, 
but she worked away with her teeth, while great welcome 
tears poured from her eyes, onto those poor, pinioned 
hands. 

“Odd’s life!” he said, when at last, after frantic 
efforts on her part, the ropes seemed at last to be giving 
way, “ but I marvel whether it has ever happened before, 
that an English gentleman allowed himself to be licked 
by a demmed foreigner, and made no attempt to give as 
good as he got.” 

It was very obvious that he was exhausted from sheer 
physical pain, and when at last the rope gave way, he fell 
in a heap against the rock. 

Marguerite looked helplessly round her. 

“ Oh ! for a drop of water on this awful beach ! ” she 


mu 2 .- - 1 .. 


THE ESCAPE 


303 

cried in agony, seeing that he was ready to faint 
again. 

“Nay, m’dear,” he murmured with his good-humoured 
smile, “ personally I should prefer a drop of good French 
brandy! an you'll dive in the pocket of this dirty old 
garment, you’ll find my flask. ... I am demmed if I 
can move." 

When he had drunk some brandy, he forced Marguerite 
to do likewise. 

“ La ! that's better now ! Eh ! little woman ? ” he 
said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “ Heigh-ho 1 but this is 
a queer rig-up for Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., to be found 
in by his lady, and no mistake. Begad!” he added, 
passing his hand over his chin, “ I haven’t been shaved 
for nearly twenty hours : I must look a disgusting object. 
As for these curls ...” 

And laughingly he took off" the disfiguring wig and 
curls, and stretched out his long limbs, which were 
cramped from many hours’ stooping. Then he bent 
forward and looked long and searchingly into his wife’s 
blue eyes. 

“ Percy,” she whispered, while a deep blush suffused 
her delicate cheeks and neck, “ if you only knew ...” 

“ I do know, dear . . . everything,” he said with 
infinite gentleness. 

“ And can you ever forgive ? ” 

“ I have naught to forgive, sweetheart ; your heroism, 
your devotion, which I, alas ! so little deserved, have 
more than atoned for that unfortunate episode at the 
ball.” 

14 Then you knew ? . . . ” she whispered, “ all the 
time ...” 

“Yes!” he replied tenderly, “I knew ... all the 
time. . . . But, begad ! had I but known what a noble 


304 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

heart yours was, my Margot, I should have trusted you, 
as you deserved to be trusted, and you would not have 
had to undergo the terrible sufferings of the past few 
hours, in order to run after a husband, who has done so 
much that needs forgiveness/’ 

They were sitting side by side, leaning up against a 
rock, and he had rested his aching head on her shoulder. 
She certainly now deserved the name of “ the happiest 
woman in Europe.” 

“ It is a case of the blind leading the lame, sweetheart, 
is it not ? ” he said with his good-natured smile of old. 
“ Odd’s life ! but I do not know which are the more 
sore, my shoulders or your little feet.” 

He bent forward to kiss them, for they peeped out 
through her torn stockings, and bore pathetic witness 
to her endurance and devotion. 

“ But Armand ...” she said, with sudden terror and 
remorse, as in the midst of her happiness the image of 
the beloved brother, for whose sake she had so deeply 
sinned, rose now before her mind. 

“ Oh ! have no fear for Armand, sweetheart,” he said 
tenderly, “did I not pledge you my word that he should 
be safe? He with de Tournay and the others are even 
now on board the Day Dream." 

“But how ?” she gasped, “ I do not understand.” 

“Yet, ’tis simple enough, m’dear,” he said with that 
funny, half-shy, half-inane laugh of his, “ you see ! when 
I found that that brute Chauvelin meant to stick to me 
like a leech, I thought the best thing I could do, as I 
could not shake him off, was to take him along with me. 
I had to get to Armand and the others somehow, and all 
the roads were patrolled, and every one on the look-out 
for your humble servant. I knew that when I slipped 
through Chauvelin’s fingers at the * Chat Gris,’ that he 


THE ESCAPE 


305 

would lie in wait for me here, whichever way I took. I 
wanted to keep an eye on him and his doings, and a 
British head is as good as a French one any day.” 

Indeed it had proved to be infinitely better, and 
Marguerite’s heart was filled with joy and marvel, as he 
continued to recount to her the daring manner in which 
he had snatched the fugitives away, right from under 
Chauvelin’s very nose. 

“ Dressed as the dirty old Jew,” he said gaily, “ I knew 
I should not be recognised. I had met Reuben Gold- 
stein in Calais earlier in the evening. For a few gold 
pieces he supplied me with this rig-out, and undertook to 
bury himself out of sight of everybody, whilst he lent me 
his cart and nag.” 

“ But if Chauvelin had discovered you,” she gasped 
excitedly, “your disguise was good . . . but he is so 
sharp.” 

“Odd’s fish!” he rejoined quietly, “then certainly 
the game would have been up. I could but take the risk. 
I know human nature pretty well by now,” he added, 
with a note of sadness in his cheery, young voice, “ and I 
know these Frenchmen out and out. They so loathe a 
Jew, that they never come nearer than a couple of yards 
of him, and begad ! I fancy that I contrived to make 
myself look about as loathsome an object as it is possible 
to conceive.” 

“Yes ! — and then ? ” she asked eagerly. 

“ Zooks ! — then I carried out my little plan : that is to 
say, at first I only determined to leave everything to 
chance, but when I heard Chauvelin giving his orders to 
the soldiers, I thought that Fate and I were going to work 
together after all. I reckoned on the blind obedience 
of the soldiers. Chauvelin had ordered them on pain of 
death, not to stir until the tall Englishman came. Desgas 
u 


30 6 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

had thrown me down in a heap quite close to the hut ; the 
foldiers took no notice of the Jew, who had driven 
Citoyen Chauvelin to this spot. I managed to free my 
hands from the ropes, with which the brute had trussed 
me ; I always carry pencil and paper with me wherever I 
go, and I hastily scrawled a few important instructions 
on a scrap of paper ; then I looked about me. I crawled 
up to the hut, under the very noses of the soldiers, who 
lay under cover without stirring, just as Chauvelin had 
ordered them to do, then I dropped my little note into 
the hut, through a chink in the wall, and waited. In 
this note I told the fugitives to walk noiselessly out of 
the hut, creep down the cliffs, keep to the left until they 
came to the first creek, to give a certain signal, when the 
boat of the Day Dream , which lay in wait not far out to 
sea, would pick them up. They obeyed implicitly, 
fortunately for them and for me. The soldiers who saw 
them were equally obedient to Chauvelin’s orders. They 
did not stir ! I waited for nearly half an hour ; when I 
knew that the fugitives were safe I gave the signal, which 
caused so much stir.” 

And that was the whole story. It seemed so simple ! 
and Marguerite could but marvel at the wonderful 
ingenuity, the boundless pluck and audacity which had 
evolved and helped to carry out this daring plan. 

“ But those brutes struck you 1 ” she gasped in horror, 
at the bare recollection of the fearful indignity. 

“ Well ! that could not be helped,” he said gently, 
“ whilst my little wife’s fate was so uncertain, I had to 
remain here by her side. Odd’s life ! ” he added merrily, 
“ never fear ! Chauvelin will lose nothing by waiting, I 
warrant ! Wait till I get him back to England I — La 1 he 
shall pay for the thrashing he gave me with compound 
interest, I promise you.” 


THE ESCAPE 


30 ; 


Marguerite laughed. It was so good to be beside him, 
to hear his cheery voice, to watch that good-humoured 
twinkle in his blue eyes, as he stretched out his strong 
arms, in longing for that foe, and anticipation of his 
well-deserved punishment. 

Suddenly, however, she started : the happy blush left 
her cheek, the light of joy died out of her eyes : she had 
heard a stealthy footfall overhead, and a stone had rolled 
down from the top of the cliffs right down to the beach 
below. 

M What’s that ? ” she whispered in horror and alarm. 

•*Oh! nothing, m’dear,” he muttered with a pleasant 
laugh, “ only a trifle you happened to have forgotten . . . 
my friend, Ffoulkes . . .” 

“ Sir Andrew ! ” she gasped. 

Indeed, she had wholly forgotten the devoted friend 
and companion, who had trusted and stood by her 
during all these hours of anxiety and suffering. She 
remembered him now, tardily and with a pang of 
remorse. 

“Aye! you had forgotten him, hadn’t you, m’dear,” 
said Sir Percy, merrily, “ fortunately, I met him, 
not far from the 1 Chat Gris,’ before I had that interest- 
ing supper party, with my friend Chauvelin. . . . Odd’s 
life ! but I have a score to settle with that young repro- 
bate ! — but in the meanwhile, I told him of a very long, 
very roundabout road, that would bring him here by a 
very circuitous road which Chauvelin’s men would never 
suspect, just about the time when we are ready for him, 
eh, little woman ? ” 

“ And he obeyed ? ” asked Marguerite, in utter astonish- 
ment. 

“Without word or question. See, here he comes* 
He was not in the way when I did not want him, and 


308 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

now he arrives in the nick of time. Ah ! he will make 
pretty little Suzanne a most admirable and methodical 
husband.” 

In the meanwhile Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had cautiously 
worked his way down the cliffs: he stopped once or 
twice, pausing to listen for the whispered words, which 
would guide him to Blakeney’s hiding-place. 

“Blakeney!” he ventured to say at last cautiously, 
“ Blakeney ! are you there ? ” 

The next moment he rounded the rock against which 
Sir Percy and Marguerite were leaning, and seeing the 
weird figure still clad in the long Jew’s gaberdine, he 
paused in sudden, complete bewilderment. 

But already Blakeney had struggled to his feet. 

“ Here I am, friend,” he said with his funny, inane 
laugh, “ all alive ! though I do look a begad scarecrow 
in these demmed things.” 

“ Zooks ! ” ejaculated Sir Andrew in boundless astonish- 
ment as he recognised his leader, “ of all the . . . ” 

The young man had seen Marguerite, and happily 
checked the forcible language that rose to his lips, at 
sight of the exquisite Sir Percy in this weird and dirty 
garb. 

“ Yes 1 ” said Blakeney, calmly, “ of all the . . . hem I 
. . . My friend ! — I have not yet had time to ask you 
what you were doing in France, when I ordered you to 
remain in London ? Insubordination ? What ? Wait 
till my shoulders are less sore, and, by Gad, see the 
punishment you’ll get.” 

“ Odd’s fish ! I’ll bear it,” said Sir Andrew, with a 
merry laugh, “ seeing that you are alive to give it. . . . 
Would you have had me allow Lady Blakeney to do the 
journey alone ? But, in the name of heaven, man, where 
did you get these extraordinary clothes ? ” 


THE ESCAPE 


309 

M Lud ! they are a bit quaint, ain’t they ? ” laughed 
Sir Percy, jovially. “ But, odd’s fish ! ” he added, with 
sudden earnestness and authority, “ now you are here, 
Ffoulkes, we must lose no more time : that brute 
Chauvelin may send some one to look after us.” 

Marguerite was so happy, she could have stayed here 
for ever, hearing his voice, asking a hundred questions. 
But at mention of Chauvelin’s name she started in quick 
alarm, afraid for the dear life she would have died to 
save. 

“ But how can we get back ? ” she gasped ; “ the roads 
are full of soldiers between here and Calais, and . . .* 

“ We are not going back to Calais, sweetheart,” he 
said, “ but just the other side of Gris Nez, not half a 
league from here. The boat of the Day Dream will 
meet us there.” 

“ The boat of the Day Dream ?* 

“ Yes ! ” he said, with a merry laugh ; “ another little 
trick of mine. I should have told you before that when 
I slipped that note into the hut, I also added another 
for Armand, which I directed him to leave behind, and 
which has sent Chauvelin and his men running full tilt 
back to the * Chat Gris ’ after me ; but the first little note 
contained my real instructions, including those to old 
Briggs. He had my orders to go out further to sea, and 
then towards the west. When well out of sight of Calais, 
he will send the galley to a little creek he and I know 
of, just beyond Gris Nez. The men will look out for . 
me — we have a preconcerted signal, and we will all be 
safely aboard, whilst Chauvelin and his men solemnly sit 
and watch the creek which is * just opposite the “ Chat 
Gris.”’” 

“ The other side of Gris Nez ? But I ... I cannot 
walk, Percy,” she moaned helplessly as, trying to struggle 

<0¥L«. 


jio THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

to her tired feet, she found herself unable even tc 
stand. 

“ I will carry you, dear,” he said simply ; “ the blind 
leading the lame, you know.” 

Sir Andrew was ready, too, to help with the precious 
burden, but Sir Percy would not entrust his beloved, to 
any arms but his own. 

“ When you and she are both safely on board the 
Day Dream” he said to his young comrade, “ and I feel 
that Mile. Suzanne’s eyes will not greet me in England 
with reproachful looks, then it will be my turn to rest.” 

And his arms, still vigorous in spite of fatigue and 
suffering, closed round Marguerite’s poor, weary body, 
and lifted her as gently as if she had been a feather. 

Then, as Sir Andrew discreetly kept out of earshot, 
there were many things said — or rather whispered — 
which even the autumn breeze did not catch, for it had 
gone to rest. 

All his fatigue was forgotten ; his shoulders must have 
been very sore, for the soldiers had hit hard, but the 
man’s muscles seemed made of steel, and his energy was 
almost supernatural. It was a weary tramp, half a league 
along the stony side of the cliffs, but never for a moment 
did his courage give way or his muscles yield to fatigue. 
On he tramped, with firm footstep, his vigorous arms 
encircling the precious burden, and ... no doubt, as 
she lay, quiet and happy, at times lulled to momentary 
drowsiness, at others watching, through the slowly 
gathering morning light, the pleasant face with the lazy, 
drooping blue eyes, ever cheerful, ever illumined with a 
good-humoured smile, she whispered many things, which 
helped to shorten the weary road, and acted as a sooth- 
ing balsam to his aching sinews. 

The many-hued light of dawn was breaking in the east. 


THE ESCAPE 


3 ” 

when at last they reached the creek beyond Gris Ner. 
The galley lay in wait : in answer to a signal from Sir 
Percy, she drew near, and two sturdy British sailors had 
the honour of carrying my lady into the boat. 

Half an hour later, they were on board the Day Dream. 
The crew, who of necessity were in their master’s secrets, 
and who were devoted to him heart and soul, were not 
surprised to see him arriving in so extraordinary a 
disguise. 

Armand St Just and the other fugitives were eagerly 
awaiting the advent of their brave rescuer; he would 
not stay to hear the expressions of their gratitude, but 
found his way to his private cabin as quickly as he 
could, leaving Marguerite quite happy in the arms of her 
brother. 

Everything on board the Day Dream was fitted with 
that exquisite luxury, so dear to Sir Percy Blakeney’s 
heart, and by the time they all landed at Dover he had 
found time to get into some of the sumptuous clothes 
which he loved, and of which he always kept a supply 
on board his yacht. 

The difficulty was to provide Marguerite with a pair 
of shoes, and great was the little middy’s joy when my 
lady found that she could put foot on English shore in 
his best pair. 

The rest is silence ! — silence and joy for those who 
had endured so much suffering, yet found at last a great 
and lasting happiness. 

But it is on record that at he brilliant wedding of Sir 
Andrew Ffoulkes, Bart., with Mile. Suzanne de Tournay 
de Basserive, a function at which H.R.H. the Prince of 
Wales and all the 'elite of fashionable society were 
present, the most beautiful woman there was unques- 
tionably Lady Blakeney, whilst the clothes Sir Percy 


312 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 

Blakeney wore, were the talk of the ieunesse dorU of 
London for many days. 

It is also a fact that M. Chauvelin, the accredited 
agent of the French Republican Government, was not 
present at that or any other social function in London, 
after that memorable evening at Lord Grenville’s ball 
























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